Seven Years
by SaintRidley
Summary: Tom Riddle and his time as a student at Hogwarts. Not AU, not contradicting canon. Preemptively rated T for the future torture and killing that will be involved later on. Currently in first year. Note: I don't own the HP universe.
1. Chapter 1: On the Platform

_Year One: Tom Riddle and the Search for Family _

_Chapter One: On the Platform_

There he stood, between platforms nine and ten, trying to work out how to reach Platform Nine and Three Quarters. He had no family to help him, having never met any relative, and it was his first time boarding the train. Scarce months ago he wouldn't have even known the place existed. Now he brushed his black hair away from his eyes, gripping his cart tightly. He had his books, cauldron, potions ingredients, and robes packed inside; his wand was tucked into the waistline of his trousers. Before he could ever get a chance to use it, though, he needed to get onto that blasted platform.

Then he heard a voice to his left say "Of course I'll write home, mum! I haven't let you down on that for the last two years, what makes you think I will this year?" The black haired boy turned and saw a girl about two years his senior, wearing a blue jumper and a matching, ankle-length skirt. She had brown hair pulled into a tight bun, sharp features, and a pair of spectacles set in front of eyes with a severe, yet soft expression to them.

"I know, Minerva. But I know you. And if anything could annoy you slightly, it's me reminding you to write home," stated the girl's mother, with mild bemusement in her eyes. The black haired boy had never seen such behaviour where he came from; he kept to himself, and had never seen anyone truly happy there.

"Give my love to Dad," she called out as she pushed her cart toward the barrier between the platforms. The boy brushed his hair aside again, determined not to miss the secret of how to get through. She was there; then she was gone. She'd simply walked through.

"Suppose it really was that easy. I knew it," he muttered, pushing his cart toward the barrier. He clipped a woman in the ankle on the way. "Sorry," he half-heartedly muttered, not really caring, only focused on the barrier and what lay beyond. He was focused on the new life he would be embarking upon, away from that… that place. He would be somewhere where he could be special, where he could make something of himself. Then he passed through the barrier, emerging near the scarlet steam engine, the Hogwarts Express.

He looked around, taking in the people he saw. There were other first years, some looking nervous. Others looked excited, running around trying to see everything they could. There were older students too, greeting old friends or lecturing younger siblings. One girl with long black hair was directing younger students, giving them tips on how to board the train safely. A tall, red haired boy stood talking to a few younger redheaded children, who must have been brothers or cousins. A voice muttered "Blood traitors" as it passed on the left.

The black haired boy turned to see another girl of about thirteen years, with long black hair, and a sullen look. She was staring at the tall redheaded boy, looking disgusted. "Septimus Weasley," she elaborated. "Can't stand the Weasleys; they don't deserve to be called purebloods." Before the boy could respond, she had boarded the train. He looked after her, seeing the name marked on her trunk. "Walburga Black", he read.

The boy pulled his trunk up after him, dinging it against the steps before dragging it toward the back where he could find an empty compartment. He wanted to change, and then to sleep. He wanted to be well rested before arriving at Hogwarts. Carefully, he pulled his wand out and set it aside. After he had pulled his robes on, he took hold of his wand. He looked at it curiously; he had always done magic very well before he even knew about it, would he fare as well with a wand? Would he be as naturally gifted, or would he struggle?

He waved it, and a cushion flew off the seat opposite him. Another wave sent it back into place. He contented himself to play with the cushions before napping, ripping and restoring, almost instinctively. Soon there was a knock on the door, and a boy with white-blond hair and pale, grey eyes looked inside. "Do you mind if I join you? The other compartments are full, and I need to sit down."

"Whatever suits you," said the black haired boy, not really caring about company. He put his wand away, having no more desire to practice magic with an audience present. The blond boy sat down.

After a long silence, broken only by a witch selling snacks, the blond boy said "So, maybe we should introduce ourselves. I'm Abraxas Malfoy. What's your name?"

"Tom," came the response. "My name is Tom Riddle."


	2. Chapter 2: The Four Houses

"Riddle… I've never heard of a _wizarding_ family called Riddle before," Abraxas said sneeringly, shifting slightly in his seat. Tom noticed this and the change in tone, carefully considering how to say what he was about to say.

"I've never met my parents," Tom said quietly. "My mother died shortly after my birth, and my father had left her long before that. I'm not even sure that Riddle is even my proper surname. They say my mum named me for my father and grandfather, but she didn't have time to give them my last name. They called me Riddle, because my name was a mystery. I've never known my parents' names."

Tom had just told a mix of truth and lies with the utmost of ease. Of course, he had learned how to do this at the orphanage. He did, in fact know that his proper surname was Riddle. Likewise, he had figured out who his father was. The Riddle House was only a short way up the road from the orphanage, and a man called Tom Riddle lived there, with his parents.

"Oh, sorry. They – I mean, your parents – they were our kind, weren't they? If you know, I mean," came a slightly abashed, but no less pursuant Abraxas.

"I believe so," mumbled Tom. In fact, he only believed his father was magical. But the way Abraxas spoke of Muggles and wizards born to Muggles made him none too keen to mention that he thought his mother was one.

The train rolled on, and day turned to night. Abraxas and Tom had stopped talking, seemingly lost in their own thoughts until "So, what House do you expect you'll be in?"

Tom looked taken aback. "Slytherin," he stated. "I'd honestly have no idea what you were talking about if I didn't have a copy of _Hogwarts, A History_."

"Didn't that book only come out last year? And didn't it stay practically sold out for six months or so?"

"Seven, actually. Flourish and Blotts had just gotten a new shipment, and I got the last available copy. But, let's get back to your original question. Slytherin seems to fit me best, but that's just from what I've read."

"I'm sure whatever House you end up in will be a good match. I know I'll be in Slytherin; my whole family's been."

They sat silent again until the train stopped. They pulled their trunks behind them, but were told that they would be taken care of. They walked around the station until they heard "First years! Hey, you lot! Get over here!" The first years gathered around a tall, bald, muscular man with a thin moustache and furry eyebrows that obscured his eyes. He was standing near a lake, and on the water was a fleet of small boats.

"All right. Now, before you get into the boats, listen up. I'm Ogg, groundskeeper here at Hogwarts. Don't let me catch you lot running around, causing trouble on the school grounds. Get in the boats, four person capacity. Now get in, or you'll be late for your own sorting."

The students climbed into boats, sometimes overfilling them, at which point Ogg physically moved students to emptier boats. Tom and Abraxas shared a boat with two other boys called Richard Lestrange and Insolitus Lovegood. The former was quiet, dark, and brooding. The latter was extremely talkative, interested in exceptionally strange subjects, often breaking off in mid-sentence to discuss a completely new topic (usually about some completely inane creature).

"My father saw one once, and he's promised to take me to Sweden this summer to see if we can find some more. Imagine, seeing a Crumple-Horned Snorkack in its natural habitat. Just imagine how marvellous it would be, how spectacular…" he was saying to no one in particular.

It was a long, annoying boat ride for Tom, who had to endure Insolitus's incessant comments on nargles, wrackspurts, heliopaths, snorkacks, humdingers, cryopaths, and a whole menagerie of nonsensical creatures. Tom didn't really care when he saw the giant squid. Rather, he wished it would destroy this boat and stop Insolitus from talking so much.

Once the boats had docked in their underwater cave, and Ogg had led them to the entrance hall, Tom truly marvelled. He looked around at the moving portraits, the torches, the bewitched ceiling depicting the sky above, the ghosts pouring into the hall. "I'm home," he breathed. He never wanted to leave it again. Ogg left, and the first years stood, listening to the older students on the other side of a nearby door. Then they heard a voice familiar to Tom, who had heard it once before.

"Ah, welcome, students," intoned the soothing voice of Albus Dumbledore, Deputy Headmaster and Transfiguration Professor. His long, auburn hair and beard hid his already great age. "Before I escort you into the Great Hall, I must give a short lesson on the Houses of Hogwarts School. We have four Houses, each named for one of our illustrious founders. They are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each House has its own characteristics; which, combined with those of the other Houses, make Hogwarts as wonderful as it is. Your House will be like a family to you. Triumphs and excellent behaviour will earn you points; wrongdoing and failure can cause you to lose points. The House with the most points at the end of the school year will win the House Cup."

Professor Dumbledore led the students through a door to the Great Hall, and left the first years there, having gone back to fetch something. The first years stood, looking out at the older students, already seated at their House tables, watching the young students with curiosity. Professor Dumbledore returned, bearing a stool and a tattered old hat. He placed the hat on the stool, and retreated to the staff table, taking his seat between a wispy old wizard in the central seat and a plump one who might have been as old as Dumbledore, with straw coloured hair.

The students watched, and the hat opened its brim and sang.

_Nearly a thousand years ago_

_Lived the Hogwarts founders four_

_The greatest mages of their age_

_And any age before._

_Bold Gryffindor, the lionheart_

_So gallant, brave, and true._

_Mastered the mage-warrior's art_

_Evil, the creatures he slew._

_Warm Hufflepuff, embraced all_

_Inclusive, kind, and loving._

_To her came fortune's call,_

_Her treasures disbursed in the uncovering._

_Wise Ravenclaw, wit beyond measure_

_Never seen without a book._

_Thought she had man's greatest treasure_

_Sadly, her life, that treasure, it took._

_Shrewd Slytherin, ambition was his game_

_In possession of a snakelike mind;_

_Serpenttongue 'twas his other name,_

_His silver tongue got him out of any bind._

_So put me on, I won't bite;_

_Just a look, it won't take long,_

_Your mind, I'm sure, is quite a sight_

_And shall tell me where you belong._

The hat fell silent, and Professor Dumbledore stood up, unfurling a long piece of parchment. "When I call your name, please sit down on the stool and place the hat on your head. AVERY, MATTHEW!"

A tall, lanky boy with short, scrubby blond hair made his way to the stool. After a minute or two, the hat declared "SLYTHERIN!"

"BLACK, ALPHARD!"

A scrawny young lad with dark hair and eyes, but pale skin slouched toward the hat. After but a moment, the hat shouted "SLYTHERIN!"

"BRINKERHOFF, JAMES!"

A short boy with light hair and wide eyes sat down. After a long while came the call "HUFFLEPUFF!"

"BUSHWELL, LILIA!"

A girl with shining black hair skipped on up to the stool, jammed the hat on her head and eagerly awaited the sorting. "GRYFFINDOR!"

She skipped off to the Gryffindor table to thunderous applause, and when she had turned to look, "Dexter, Brigitte" was being announced as the first Ravenclaw of the year.

More and more students came to be sorted. Tom saw "Lovegood, Insolitus; Jones, Barnaby; and Patrick, Pansy" sorted into Ravenclaw. His attention was also caught when "Ham, Damon; May, Veronica; and Rian, Kerensa" became Hufflepuffs. In addition to Lilia Bushwell, Gerard Fortescue, Baldric Longbottom, and Brava Nott became Gryffindors. On the Slytherin side of things, Richard Lestrange, Abraxas Malfoy, and Lilith Melville had been sorted, and now it was Tom's turn.

"RIDDLE, TOM!"

Tom jumped up, and made his way to the stool. He picked up the old hat and looked at it. It was incredibly worn, old beyond measure. He simply jammed it over his ears. "Galloping – Slytherin, SLYHTERIN!" the hat shouted the final word. Whatever it had seen, it had seen something that made a true Slytherin. He went to the table, sitting next to Abraxas and across from Lilith, who looked at him and looked away quickly, blushing. There they sat, until the last name had been called, and Professor Dumbledore took the hat away.

The wispy haired wizard stood up, his body shaking with the effort; his age had made him exceptionally fragile. "Welcome, new students, and welcome back to our older ones. A list of items banned in the corridors may be found outside Mr. Pringle's office on the ground floor. We have a new Herbology professor, Professor Sprout. Forbidden forest… Well, you can guess by the name. Has anything slipped my mind, Albus?" he asked, leaning toward Professor Dumbledore, who simply shook his head. "In that case, then, I invite you to feast."

Food appeared on the table, more food than Tom had ever seen in his entire life. He immediately set to work on it, shutting everything else out. For the first time ever, he could eat properly. After the feast, the tall, black haired girl he had seen helping younger students on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters stood up from his table, a gleaming silver HG badge set on her robes, and motioned to the first years to follow her. "I'm Dorea Black, Head Girl. If you'd just follow me, I'll show you to our common room and to your dormitories."

She led them down to the dungeons, deeper and deeper, until the walls themselves were moist; they were under the lake. The smell of lake water grew stronger and stronger until they reached a space of completely blank wall. "The password for this term is _Ophidia_." A concealed stone door slid open, revealing a high ceilinged room with several high-backed chairs seated towards a fire in the pit off to the left. "The stairs on the left are for the girls dormitories, the stairs on the right are for boys. You'll all be on the fifth landing down. Goodnight, sleep tight, and don't let the chimæras bite," she said cheerfully, leading the first year girls down the left hand staircase. The boys trudged toward their own, and finding their landing, saw the door with a sign stuck to it. Written in silver ink upon it were the words "First Years". The boys entered to find their trunks placed near beds, and each immediately went to change into pyjamas and sleep for morning. As Tom pulled his curtains shut around his bed, he thought yet again "I never want to leave."


	3. Chapter 3: The Slugs and the Bees

Tom awoke the next morning, hardly daring to open his eyes, expecting that it had all been a dream. Was he really, finally here? Was he now one of the newest Slytherins? He opened his eyes; he was in a four poster bed, dressed with black sheets, black pillowcases, and black curtains. He opened the curtains to see several more beds, each identical to his own, all set against the walls of a dark, dank room. Torches sat lit in sconces high above the beds, giving the dormitory an eerie light.

He got out of bed and dressed himself, putting on his robes, adjusting his hat, and slipping his wand into a pocket. He quickly climbed the stairs, taking a cursory glance at the common room, which was devoid of people, and tapped the hidden stone door so he could leave. Roughly ten minutes later, after taking a wrong turn into a dead end ("That _won't_ happen again!"), Tom emerged in the entrance hall, which he immediately left to enter the Great Hall.

Students were stumbling in, sleepy eyed and hungry, many of them still wearing hair curlers or fluffy slippers, having decided to dress later. Tom sat at the Slytherin House table, across from Lilith and next to Abraxas. Lilith had been talking to Alphard Black, wondering about classes they would have that day when she saw Tom. She'd had her chin resting in her hand, but her elbow slid a few inches when she saw Tom sit down, causing her head to dip down toward the table. She caught herself before anyone had noticed, though; Abraxas was looking down the table, Alphard was chewing a piece of bacon, and Tom simply did not acknowledge that he had seen anything.

As Tom settled himself to a simple breakfast of bacon and eggs, with a slice of toast, a few hundred owls poured into the hall, carrying packages containing forgotten items or various sweets meant to congratulate the student on their sorting. Abraxas received one such package of sweets, containing some of his favourite candies, including chocolate frogs and liquorice wands. He offered some around the table. Lilith took a frog and Alphard a wand. Tom politely declined. Lilith ate her frog, picking off its legs first, so it could not hop away, and then she bit the head off. She glanced at the card that had come with it.

"I've already got about a dozen Slytherins. Anyone want this one?" she asked, looking around for any takers.

"I'll take it," whispered Tom, who was by now eager to learn all he could about the Founder of Slytherin House.

Lilith passed the card over to Tom, brushing his hand as she did so, and Tom took it, looking at it greedily. The back of the card had basic information written on it. "Salazar Slytherin, medieval, dates unclear. One of the four founders of Hogwarts, Salazar Slytherin remains one of the most famous Parselmouths in recorded history, earning himself the nickname of 'Serpenttongue.' He is said to have created a secret chamber in the school, with a monster inside that could be used to purge the school of the unworthy. That chamber has never been found and is considered a myth by historians."

Tom pocketed his card when he saw movement near the head of the table; Dorea was handing sheaves of parchment to the students on either side of her, keeping one to herself. A few minutes later the parchment reached the first years, who read with interest. "Course schedules!" exclaimed Alphard, taking his and handing the rest off to Lilith.

They all perused their schedules; they had Astronomy that night at midnight. Today consisted of two double periods. "Oh great," moaned Lilith. "Double Transfiguration with the Gryffindors this morning. How _wonderful_."

"But look in the bright side, we're with the Ravenclaws for potions," remarked Abraxas. "If any other House is worth anything, it's Ravenclaw."

"That's just because they're the only other House that stresses thought before action," chimed in Avery from a few feet down the table. "Hufflepuff just helps out whomever, no matter what's asked of them, provided they trust the person asking. And Gryffindor, well… Their only thought before acting is 'This will be so _glorious_ and _admirable_.'"

The young Slytherins continued this conversation as they went to their common room to fetch their things for Transfiguration. They lauded the Ravenclaws for their thoughtfulness before action, but never placed them on the pedestal they reserved for Slytherin. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff were summarily rated as "stupidly brave" and "stupidly loyal", respectively.

As they made their way to Transfiguration, the subject changed. They wondered whether or not Professor Dumbledore would overtly favour the Gryffindors or whether he might be more subtle. When they reached the classroom, students were already filing in, choosing seats, but Professor Dumbledore remained conspicuous by his absence. There was, however, a small shrubbery sitting at the front of the classroom, the bright green foliage standing in stark contrast with the cold grey of the stone walls.

Five minutes after class had officially started, Professor Dumbledore still remained missing. "Exactly _how_ are we supposed to learn if we have no one to teach us?" someone complained.

"An excellent question, I'm glad that someone finally asked," responded a soft voice from the corner to the left of the shrubbery. Professor Dumbledore materialised in front of them as they all turned toward the source of the voice. "And _that_," he gestured toward the plant, "That really doesn't belong here. I should have a desk, being a teacher."

He pointed his wand, and where once stood azalea bushes, there now stood a large, rectangular desk and a red chintz armchair. "Much better. I couldn't well have sat on that shrubbery, after all," Professor Dumbledore mused.

"Transfiguration is a difficult and oftentimes dangerous branch of magic," he began, the change in tone catching everyone's attention. "Therefore it is my hope that you will not fool around, and will instead pay very close attention to the lessons.

"Now, you will find matches on your desks," he waved his wand. "I would like you to concentrate on the image of a needle, and tap the match with your wand. You will not be interrupted as you work. If you have changed your match, simply raise your hand. Begin."

Professor Dumbledore reclined in his chair, watching expectantly. The students began tapping their matches with their wands, some muttering the word 'needle' under their breath as they did so. Tom observed for a bit, curious about the progress of his classmates, confident that when he chose to act, he would succeed. He closed his eyes and raised his wand, imagining a needle. "Sharp, silver, shiny," he thought, as a needle rotated in his imagination. He brought his wand down and opened his eyes.

There was no longer a match on his desk. Rather, a small needle sat where the match had been. Tom picked it up, examining it. It was cold, made of metal. It had a hole in one end and the other end was pointed. He stuck his finger with it, drawing blood. It was sharp, definitely a needle. He raised his hand.

It was nearly the end of class, Tom had spent so long watching the others before acting, but Professor Dumbledore had not let his eyes leave his students. Most of them had been tapping their needles since the start of class with no luck. Occasionally a student had enlarged the match, or set it on fire, but nothing else had happened. Tom had watched the others, closed his eyes, and raised his wand, but he only tapped the match once before examining it and raising his hand.

He walked over to Tom and took the needle in his hands, examining it, searching for error. He handed it back. "Five points to Slytherin," he said. "Tom, here, has just successfully transfigured his match," he announced to the class.

Class was dismissed, so Tom and the Slytherins went to their common room to relax before lunch and to prepare for Potions class with Professor Slughorn. Tom was congratulated on earning the first points of term for Slytherin, and after lunch they all navigated the dungeon passageways to Professor Slughorn's classroom.

They entered, cauldrons in tow, and moved themselves toward workstations. The Ravenclaws showed up moments later, followed by Professor Slughorn. He was plump, his belly pushing against his waistcoat, and he wore his moustache in a manner reminiscent of a walrus, but shorter.

"Wonderful!" he exclaimed, beaming at them all. "It is, of course, a pleasure to teach new students. You all look eager to learn, so it is my hope that you all exercise that eagerness in my class. Potions don't require a wand, usually, so you may set those aside for now."

The students set their wands aside, pulling out their potions kits. "Now, I would like you to open your books to any potion you see in the section marked for beginners. You will likely find such things as Forgetfulness Potions, Balding Brews, and simple cleaning solutions. Pick one and make it; I'd like to be surprised."

With this rather unusual method of starting class, the students opened their books searching out potions that looked as if they could be made. Tom flipped to a random page in his book's beginner's section, entitled "A cure for acne, boils, and warts." He looked at the ingredients list – porcupine quills, beetle wings, and willow root were the main active ingredients. He found some in the student store cupboard, and lit a fire under his cauldron by prodding the fire pit with his wand. He followed the instructions exactly, stirring in the proper direction, burning the root so the ashes fell into the cauldron (it said the potion wouldn't be as potent if the root was simply powdered).

Class was nearly over when most of the students had managed to finish their potions. Abraxas had attempted a forgetfulness draught, but left out the billywig venom that induced the light-headedness that caused the potion to work. Lilith was concocting a sinister looking thing that was probably more poison than potion. The Ravenclaws were simply pouring samples of their work into flasks, each looking pleased with their work.

Tom put his own potion in a flask, and set it on Professor Slughorn's desk. With a wave of his wand, Professor Slughorn had Tom's name written on the flask. He looked at the potion. "A cure for boils, Mr. Riddle?"

"And acne and warts, too, Professor," Tom replied modestly.

"Oh ho. A triple cure, eh? I hear you were the only one to succeed in Albus's lesson today, is that right?" he added in a whisper.

"Yes, sir," Tom said.

"This looks to be in order, my boy. Tell you what. You can meet me in my office this Saturday with some other students I've selected, say eleven in the morning. It would be a good chance for you to meet some older students who can advise you and help you along your way to greatness."

"Thank you, sir."

The students left the classroom shortly thereafter, pleased with their first day of classes. Slytherin had earned a few points, and homework was light (a couple of short essays). Tom was pleased with himself; he felt he had earned Professor Slughorn's respect. Tomorrow he had Defence Against the Dark Arts, History of Magic, and Charms. After dinner, though, before bed, he wanted to do some research in the library.


	4. Chapter 4: History

After dinner, Tom sprinted toward the library, where he planned to ask the trainee librarian, the old bat running the library was nearly senile, if he might go through old newspaper articles. Upon his arrival, she showed him to the archives; Tom began rifling through newspapers, searching for Daily Prophets from the year 1927. He pulled out stacks of paper, and seeing how much he had to work with, he placed everything but January back inside the file.

It took him about two hours to get through January 1927, and he found no mention of his father. He decided he'd take it one month a week, due to his class schedule. Instead of information on his father, he found old Quidditch results, appointments to the Wizengamot and International Confederation of Wizards, and that Newt Scamander was to have the first edition of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ published by May. He may have been eager to find out about his father, but he had patience. He retired for the night, going back to work on his homework.

The next morning, after they handed out more verbal abuse to Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, the Slytherins prepared for Charms. They passed the Bloody Baron, the Slytherin ghost, along the way. "I wonder how he got so bloody," Lilith thought out loud.

"By the looks of it," began Alphard, "I'd say he was imprisoned and clawed apart by something. Hard to explain the blood otherwise, and it also accounts for the chains."

"I bet it was something different. I'll find out someday," Tom remarked quietly. No one paid him any mind. No one had ever extracted the story of the Bloody Baron's death before, and there was no reason to believe anyone ever would.

They entered the classroom. Professor Flitwick was a tiny little man with light brown hair that only just reached his shoulders. He was standing on his desk, holding a long piece of parchment. As the final students sat down, he began to read the names off the list, listening for them to acknowledge their name. Once the roll was taken, he launched into a short explanation of the class.

"Charms," he began. "There are two main categories of spell, Charms being one and Transfiguration the other, and all spells fall under the umbrellas of one of these two categories. Spells fit into various subcategories, which they themselves may fall under either category. The largest subcategories that contain many charms are the Curses, Hexes, Jinxes, Enchantments, Conjuration spells, Banishing spells, and the like. Spells that add new properties, take away existing properties, protect, harm, or otherwise affect their subject without changing the subject's composition fall under the category of charm. Some spells, such as the Colour-Change Charm are ambiguous and are named by whoever discovered the spell. All other spells, which change the composition of their subject, belong under the category of Transfiguration.

"And so we will begin with the basic levitation charm, _Wingardium Leviosa_. You will pair off, and choose a feather. Choose a partner, take a feather, and I'll explain further."

There was a lot of movement as people ran to friends or went to get a feather before choosing a partner. Lilith made a beeline for Tom, who simply sat, not caring who he worked with. Abraxas and 

Alphard had their feather and waited for further instruction; Lilith seized Tom by the arm and dragged him over to choose a feather.

He pointed at a random feather, which she immediately declared the perfect choice, and they rushed to their seat. Professor Flitwick explained the wand motion required; a swish and a flick.

The class set to work, attempting to levitate their feathers. Tom allowed Lilith to take charge on this, confident that he'd be able to do it if asked. Avery managed to flick and swish, causing his feather to turn green and emit a low, humming noise. Abraxas and Alphard were faring better; their feather wasn't doing anything at all.

Lilith was trying, but her enunciation of the incantation kept causing her to multiply the feather. Tom leaned over and whispered the proper way to say it, demonstrating on a piece of lint that had fallen from someone's robes. "Now you try," he said, almost encouragingly.

She brightened at this, and properly levitated the feather. Professor Flitwick turned at that time, and judging her work to be excellent, said "And what about you, Mr. Riddle? Could you levitate a feather for me?"

"Of course, sir," Tom said graciously. "_Wingardium Leviosa_."

With a swish and a flick of his wand, Tom was levitating his feather. He maintained his spell, moving his wand left and right, to and fro, the feather following. Professor Flitwick smiled and said "That's ten points to Slytherin. Homework – please practice your levitation charms, practical quiz on the day after tomorrow. Class is dismissed."

The Slytherins left, pleased to have earned points, and eager for their first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson. They walked down the hall, past a locked corridor, and entered the classroom, where Professor Merrythought was busying herself writing on the board.

Galatea Merrythought was an elderly witch; her white hair was thinning and her face was deeply lined. Despite the fact that she must have been nearing the age of one-hundred and thirty, at the least, she remained spry and possessed all of her mental faculties. She was, by all accounts, an excellent teacher, and both Professors Dumbledore and Slughorn praised her abilities, having seen her work firsthand over the past forty years. She never discussed her previous professions; teaching was her idea of a happy retirement.

"Good morning class!" she called, as they entered and sat, pulling out their copies of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (7__th__ edition)_ and _Dark Creatures Brought to Light_.

"Good morning, Professor Merrythought," they all chimed back. They were all ready to start, excited by the prospect of this class.

"Thank you. I would like first for you to please listen as I explain how I plan to divide this course up over the next seven years. This year, your first year, will focus solely on Dark Creatures, from hinkypunks and grindylows to basilisks and werewolves. Basic spells for dealing with such creatures will also be taught, but will not be the emphasis. Second year the emphasis will shift to jinxes and counter-jinxes, and there will still be creature lessons. Third year will see you move on to hexes and counter-hexes, and fourth year will emphasise curses and counter-curses. Both will follow the same format as second year. Fifth year is your O.W.L. year, and will be spent mostly in review of the previous years' work. You will also be given a taste of the N.E.W.T. work, to keep you ready for the O.W.L. Should you choose to take this class into N.E.W.T., you'll learn about illegal Dark Curses and how to block them. Your seventh year will be your N.E.W.T. exams, and you will learn the most complex defensive magic we are allowed to teach here at Hogwarts. Any questions?"

The students sat, silently, taking it in. The class sounded like it would be a lot of work, but very rewarding and immensely fun. Finally, Lilith spoke up. "What sort of creature will we start with, Professor?" she asked as sweetly as she knew how.

"I plan to open with a study on imps. Before I show them to you, could someone tell me the two main differences between imps and pixies?"

Abraxas raised his hand. "Imps are typically a darker shade, usually brown, and they don't have wings. Pixies are usually electric blue and can fly."

"Thank you. That will be five points to Slytherin. Now, imps, like pixies, are not dangerous, per say. However, they have an irrepressible and malign sense of humour, which one should not allow to get out of control. Hence, I will not let them out of the cage this lesson. They're tricky little blighters, so when I see you next and release one, don't fall for its tricks, okay?"

She uncovered the cage, and about a dozen little brown and red creatures looked out at the class. Some made faces, others rude hand gestures, and still others were babbling incoherently, evidently trying to bother the students. They ran around trying to climb the cage, trying to get out, even just playing tag or whatever it was that they were actually doing.

The students watched, fascinated, by how silly they were, and took notes on their behaviour. They weren't particularly Dark, Tom thought. Certainly not the sort of thing a Dark wizard would make an army of, anyway. Definitely nothing to fear, in fact any simple jinx could do them in.

The lesson ended, and the students filed out for lunch. There the Slytherins had a lengthy discussion with some older students about what manner of creature Professor Merrythought usually brought into class for study. Grindylows, hinkypunks, kappas, and the like tended to be the usual. The older students got to see more dangerous fare, such as the runespoor, but even without the creature present they still studied chimæras, acromantulas, basilisks, and manticores.

After lunch was History of Magic, taught by the incredibly old Professor Binns, who exceeded Professor Merrythought by at least thirty years, according to the older students. None could recall anything he had taught them, and only knew Professor Binns was older than history.

He may have been teetering on the brink of life and death, but this did not prevent him from droning on, impossible to deter, discussing medieval goblin rebellions. The entire class fell asleep within minutes, except for Tom. He alone was immune to the effect. He sat there, listening, writing down key points. At the end of class, Tom felt stupider than he ever had before. That wore off quickly enough, though, after he had started on his homework.


	5. Chapter 5: Sluggy Freelance

The rest of the week went by swimmingly. Tom found himself loving school, enjoying the challenges his teachers provided to him. He started to look ahead in his books, preparing to master spells before they were supposed to be taught, making himself better along the way. He spent most of his time reading books, ignoring outside distractions.

On Saturday morning, Tom found himself waiting outside the door to Professor Slughorn's office. Blind to what he was about to enter, and uncertain if he would like it, he opened the door and stepped inside.

The room was well-lit, something of a rarity in the dungeons, and Professor Slughorn sat on a winged armchair, with his feet resting on a red velvet pouffe. There were about a half-dozen other students sitting in a semicircle around him on chairs or the floor. Only one was a first year: Barnaby Jones, of Ravenclaw, had also been invited. Most of the others were at least fourth years. Others walked in after Tom, including Septimus Weasley, and Dorea Black walked in hand-in-hand with a fifth year Gryffindor prefect called Charlus Potter.

The room filled steadily until about fifteen sat together. Tom did not know them all, but he found himself putting names to faces immediately after a brief moment of thought. Those he had no clue about, he assigned a name to; he had always had a knack for making up names for people and things. Anagrams had been his particular favourite in his Muggle schooling, and he was very good at creating anagrams from people's names. He immediately came up with 'Bored, a lack' for Dorea Black, and was thinking hard on one for Septimus Weasley. A few moments later, he had one. 'Yes, time was pulse.' They made no sense as standalone statements, but they provided Tom with amusement, which was all he cared about.

Professor Slughorn cleared his throat. "Welcome, welcome. Today is the first time this year that our little club will meet. We have a few newcomers this year; may I introduce you to Barnaby Jones, Richard Lestrange, and Tom Riddle?"

Tom looked around; he had not seen Richard enter the office. He was sitting beside another boy, who looked quite similar, though slightly older, his brother. Rafael Lestrange was a young man of twelve, newly appointed Chaser for the Slytherin Quidditch team, and was a star pupil among his classmates. From what was understood by Tom through Abraxas, not even the Malfoy family could trace itself as far back as the Lestranges, who were said to have been an old wizarding family even at the time of the founding of Hogwarts.

After a round of introductions, everyone sat down to have some tea and snacks. Professor Slughorn was eating crystallised pineapple, and shared a glass of wine with the older students. Tom, Barnaby, and Richard helped themselves to some tea and biscuits.

"This young lady, here," Professor Slughorn gestured toward Dorea while speaking to Tom, Barnaby, and Richard. "This young lady is aiming toward ten N.E.W.T.s, and judging by her potions work, I could see her being a head Healer in St. Mungo's within a decade. Yes, she's got her head on right, and like I said, she'll go far there. Won't you, Dorea?"

Dorea looked away from Charlus long enough to give Professor Slughorn a grin. He smiled and nodded, then turned to Septimus Weasley. Dorea looked relieved to be out of the spotlight, and resumed her conversation with Charlus.

Septimus was from another old wizarding family, one with positive ties to Muggles and who actively supported protection for them by keeping the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy intact. Septimus's grandmother had gone to school with Professor Slughorn, and Septimus displayed quite a bit of her talent toward charms.

After many introductions, each complete with a prospective career path that Professor Slughorn declared best suited to the talents of the students, Barnaby, Richard, and Tom found themselves being asked questions about what they wanted to do. Naturally, they had little in the way of ideas. They each tried to give some thought to the question, and stammered out vague answers such as "Something interesting" or "Something fun."

Tom thought long and hard, only realizing just how many opportunities awaited him. He could research, creating new spells and applications of magic. He could be Minister for Magic, governor and lawmaker of the wizarding world. He could teach, learning along the way and passing knowledge on to young minds, much like Professors Slughorn and Dumbledore.

Professor Slughorn gave them all appraising glances and said "Now don't you worry about all that yet. You still have a few years yet to figure it all out. And more of your fellow classmates will be joining you by then; most students don't really find their talent until sometime in their third year. You lot have just simply shown exceptional talent well before then. So, I invite you to return in the future meetings if you are so inclined. I can connect you to important people if you just ask, and those connections could come in very handy."

Professor Slughorn got up after this little speech and went over to talk to Septimus Weasley again. Tom, Richard, and Barnaby sat for a few moments in silent contemplation. Barnaby was the first to rise, saying something about going back to his common room to do some homework. Tom and Richard remained, observing and learning. Tom gleaned little from this besides the fact that Professor Slughorn's favourite sweet was crystallised pineapple.

"Well, I suppose it must be quite tasty," Tom thought to himself as he left the room.


	6. Chapter 6: All Hallows

It was now just a few days prior to Halloween, and school was only becoming more interesting for Tom. Hinkypunks were the name of the game in Defence, matches and needles were becoming sticks and rods, and the potions were becoming even more toxic (though this may well have just been true for Lilith). Just a couple of weeks previously, the Slytherins had had flying lessons with the Ravenclaws. Tom had established himself as the top of the class, a deft hand at everything he tried, and though Slytherin was ahead in the race for the House Cup due in part to his work, he did not care. "The whole thing is ridiculous when we already know what order the Houses belong in," he could be heard saying at breakfast, as he spread butter across his bread.

"Well, the rest of the school doesn't know it, Tom; that's why it's so important," Lilith said as she took a piece of bacon off Abraxas's plate.

"Halloween's this Monday. What should we do for the weekend? And I'll just have some eggs off _your _plate, then, Lilith!" Abraxas said quickly, changing the subject while spearing a fork toward Lilith's plate.

"We could go to Ogg's pumpkin patch and change the inside of the pumpkins to be filled with red water…" Richard idly suggested.

"You mean Tom could, since he's the only one who's studying ahead," Lilith admonished. "What would you do for Halloween, Tom?" she asked, turning to face him.

"Nothing," he said flatly. Abraxas glanced over, understanding. He had not let on to anyone else that Tom lived at a Muggle orphanage. That was Tom's business, something for him to decide on telling.

Tom was no longer paying attention, though. He had found nothing relating to his father in the Prophet, and he'd searched all the way through April. He would be at October by now if he wasn't studying so much.

"Well, we should do something. It seems a waste not to, really," Lilith crooned, choosing another strip of bacon from Abraxas's plate.

"You could just take from the bacon plate three inches to your right!" Abraxas exclaimed, throwing himself at his plate, but not before Lilith got her bacon.

"Fine, we'll do the pumpkin thing if it makes you so happy. Tomorrow night, midnight, the common room," Tom snapped, losing his concentration. "Then we just have to avoid Pringle until we make it to the pumpkin patch. We get there and mess with the pumpkins, do what little we can." He was wholly unenthusiastic, and made sure to get this across. The others, however, hailed this as a great idea, and immediately began plotting additional ways to disrupt the Halloween feast via pumpkin.

The next night at midnight, Tom waited patiently in the common room for his fellows. Slowly but surely, they emerged from the depths of the Slytherin dormitories, pyjama-clad but brightly awake. Together, after a short re-briefing by Tom, they left the common room for the dungeons. It wasn't long after that that they were all hiding in the shadows as two ghosts glided past.

"No one has seen or heard from Peeves since before school started, Nick. I know that we generally consider that a good thing, and that he is usually intolerable, but such a lengthy absence implies that something is wrong," said the ghost of the Fat Friar earnestly.

"Or it means that the Baron is exerting greater control over that poltergeist. I'm inclined to believe that much; it's simply far more pleasant," Nick replied, adjusting his head as it wobbled slightly.

"Either way, we should at least look into the matter. He has as much right to be here as we do."

"Fine. We'll find the little fiend."

The ghosts drifted past, completely missing the young Slytherins, who were now sneaking up the stairwells into the entrance hall. Hurriedly, they opened the front doors and exited the castle, stepping boldly into the night.

"The grounds are beautiful at night, so serene, so dark, so –"

"Never mind the grounds, Lilith," Tom spoke softly. "There, the hut near the forest, where Ogg keeps his supplies in storage. The pumpkin patches are on the other side."

They trekked down toward the supply shack. Once there, they meandered around it, finding a pumpkin patch that was divided in two parts. On one side grew larger than normal pumpkins; on the other grew average-sized pumpkins.

"The large ones are for decoration; the smaller ones will be cooked. It does us no good to disturb the large ones, so we shan't. Look around; see what you find that might be interesting. Avery, what did you bring?" Tom commanded.

"I went into Professor Slughorn's private stores and found a few vials marked 'invisibility,' so I nicked them," Avery explained, fingering three small vials of clear liquid.

"Good. That's just what we needed. Find anything over there?" Tom asked turning towards the others.

"There's a rock garden, Tom," Abraxas reported.

"Bring a few handfuls over here, then."

Tom began making precision slices into some of the smaller pumpkins with severing charms, eventually making holes large enough to excavate some of the pulpy innards from. "Three handfuls out, and put it all back when we're done, got it?"

Each Slytherin took three handfuls of pulp from a pumpkin and set them aside on nearby pumpkins.

"Lilith, you, Richard, and Alphard will take the stones and mix them into that pulp. Avery, Abraxas, and I will pour invisibility potion into the pumpkins. Everyone understand?"

The first task went quickly, seven stones placed in each of the six piles of pulp, then placed back in the pumpkin after half a vial of invisibility potion was poured in. After a few minutes mixing the pulp with sticks, they were done.

"Now, take a chunk of pumpkin skin and hold it over the hole. Take your wand, point it, and say _Reparo_!"

Their work done, the six young Slytherins returned to their common room as quickly as possible. The next day, the fruits of their labour would be revealed.

On Halloween night, the six sat down to dinner for the Halloween feast. After a short message from Professor Dippet about school rules, the feast began. Careful not to touch anything that had pumpkin in it, the six mischief-makers ate their fill and observed. Professor Slughorn, Dorea Black, and a few second years from varying Houses were the first victims, turning invisible after taking a sip from their pumpkin juice. Once the pumpkin pie appeared on plates, shouts of pain rang out as several students bit into rocks. A few more turned invisible as well.

Success came when Septimus Weasley turned invisible and then shouted in pain, having bitten a particularly large rock. Tom and the others contained themselves, silently laughing throughout the feast. The fun subsided after a few minutes when the invisible returned to view and students stopped eating pumpkin pie. The rest of the night went without incident, and most assumed this to be the work of the still-missing Peeves.

"Good," Tom said when Abraxas brought this up on the way to the common room. "We need scapegoats like that. The longer we can go undetected, the better."

Lilith parted from the group, and started down the girls' stairwell, glancing back at the boys, but they too had departed. Hanging her head, she made her way to bed. Meanwhile, Tom climbed into his bed and simply thought "Who _are_ you, father?"


	7. Chapter 7: Truth and Lies

After the success of the Slytherin Halloween prank, of which none of the perpetrators were suspected much to the delight of all involved, Tom and company had resolved to bring about similar events in the future. "It'll make this place a bit more interesting, at least," was Tom's rationale for this decision. The more they learned, the more impressive each successive display would become. Meanwhile, Tom continued his search for his father, reaching the May and June editions of the _Prophet_ by mid-November.

With the desire to discover his father consuming him, Tom had begun to eat less and less, something noticed almost immediately by Lilith and Abraxas. Sure that Tom would come around to the desire for food at some time; Abraxas made no comment and ignored this. "Here, Tom, have some of my toast," Lilith coaxed gently at breakfast one morning, pushing her plate toward Tom.

"Not hungry. Research," he mumbled back before leaving the table. Lilith stood up immediately to follow, but was stopped short when Abraxas held her arm. They looked at each other, silently debating whether or not it would be wise to follow him. Before they could reach a conclusion, however, Tom was out of sight.

Tom made his way upstairs to the library, instinctively arriving at the news archives. Pulling up a stiff chair and a stack of old, mouldy _Prophets_, he set to work. After months of working like this, Tom was becoming quite adept at browsing through the _Prophet_ and getting everything he needed out of it in less time, looking all along for any hint of a Tom Riddle.

"Plumpton Wins for England Qualifying Round for Quidditch Cup, Fantastic Beasts: Find Them at Flourish and Blotts, Arabian Ministry of Magic Founded, Yugoslav Ministry Ceases Relations with Albanian Ministry… This rubbish is not helping," Tom muttered furiously as he flipped through the last of the June newspapers. He thrust his arms forward, sending parchment flying before bringing them up to hold his head. This was maddening.

Disgusted with the lack of useful information, Tom wrapped up his work for the night after picking up the sheaves of parchment strewn around him. He was loath to admit it, but Abraxas's words on the train were eating away at him. "I've never heard of a _wizarding_ family named Riddle before," he had said with a sneer. Tom had had to fight hard against the urge to blush, to show his embarrassment.

That slim possibility that his father was a Muggle seemed to gain weight after each failed night of searching. Tom wandered the library aimlessly, gazing periodically in the direction of the shelves, hoping something would catch his eye. Nothing did, as all he saw were old history books and the occasional potion's book. He walked right by the Restricted Section without a backwards glance, there wouldn't be anything on those shelves that might help him.

"Tom, for my father… Marvolo for my mother's father…. Somewhere, somehow, there must be something. Mother died, father was the one with magic. It just has to be. With magic, you can do anything. You don't have to die. And he abandoned me. But I'll show him. He didn't want me, so I'll become greater than he would ever have imagined. He'll regret abandoning me to the Muggles, I'll make sure of it," he fumed all the way to the entrance hall.

"Ickle firstie come 'round to play?" a voice cackled out from the shadows. A small man dressed in bright orange and wearing a wide, malicious grin floated out into the open, juggling what appeared to be dungbombs.

"I've heard of you, Peeves," Tom said calmly and quietly. He was nervous, caught off guard and unaware, but unwilling to betray this to the poltergeist whose grin grew wider with every passing second.

"You have? And what kinds of nasty, nasty lies have you heard about old Peeves?" the little man asked, turning himself over and crossing his legs in midair. He was no longer juggling the dungbombs, instead holding them tightly n his hands. "Have they told you how nice I am? Because I _lurve_ ickle firsties."

"I know enough," Tom said, trying to control the situation. This was not a moment for weakness. "You're a right piece of work; they blame you for what happened at the Halloween feast with the pumpkin dishes. But I know that's not right, because you've been gone, last seen over the summer. So where were you? Tell the truth."

This last command rang out loud and clear, and Peeves stifled a laugh. "You want to know where I've been? What's it to you? It doesn't matter; Peevesie's back and he's looking for fun. Catch!"

Peeves righted himself and aimed a dungbomb at Tom, who ducked behind a pillar and into the staircase leading toward the dungeons. Peeves cackled madly, but did not follow as Tom darted expertly through the dungeon corridors as fast as he could, ploughing through a ghost and stopping cold in his tracks. It was like taking an ice bath, going through that wave of frigid ectoplasm. He turned, shivering, to see who he had run through.

"Ho there, young one. What's got you in such a hurry?" asked the Fat Friar, one of the ghosts Tom had seen on Halloween.

"I met Peeves in the entrance hall after leaving the library. He's slinging dungbombs around," Tom explained quickly before tearing off through the dungeons yet again. He reached the blank wall that was the entrance to the Slytherin common room, spoke the password, and took off for bed.

That night he dreamed dreams of besting his father in displays of magic, proving himself more than worthy.

"You know, father," Tom murmured as he slept. "You disappoint me. On this day, I had hoped to see you prove yourself a powerful wizard, or at the very least, competent. Unfortunately, it seems I've already outclassed you, you fool. Tell me. Tell me why you abandoned me. They say the truth can set you free. That is a lie; you'll never be free. But be honest anyway. I might take pity on you if you do."

The next morning, Tom had no recollection of this dream.


	8. Chapter 8: Primal Feelings

November had come to a close, and December was shaping up well for Tom. This would be his first winter, his first Christmas and birthday, away from the orphanage. Every time he let this thought surface, he couldn't repress his grin. Life was good here; he was who he was meant to be – a wizard at the top of his class.

When Tom arrived in the common room one December morning before break, he noticed that Professor Slughorn had posted a new note on the notice board that morning. Actually, there were two notices, though only one was truly important to Tom. First was notification that Slughorn would be hosting a party the day classes let out, for members of the Slug Club and their guests only, of course. Tom passed over this one, deciding to go if only to have something to do, and eagerly read the next notice.

It was a sign-up for those who would be staying over the break. Immediately taking a quill from his robes, Tom set it to the parchment, figuring it would be charmed to produce ink at the touch of a quill regardless. As if to confirm his suspicions, there appeared a blot of ink right where Tom had set the tip of his quill. Tom signed his name, the only Slytherin to do so yet. "Hi, Tom!"

Lilith was standing right behind him, wearing what Tom could tell she hoped was a winning smile. "Staying over the holidays? What fun is that? You're always welcome to come and stay with my family," she offered, failing to hide her excitement at the idea.

"Sorry, Lilith. I can't research at your place, so the answer will have to be no," Tom said, lacing his words with false regret. "Another time, perhaps, but not this year."

Lilith stared at him, taking in his words, tearing them apart to find the smallest shred of anything positive in them. "So, that Slug Club thing... You're a part of that, aren't you?" She changed the subject, now eying the other notice. "Members and their guests only... Who's your guest going to be?"

Tom looked at her, sensing it would not be wise to say that he would not be taking a guest. "I was actually thinking of asking you," he said, feigning sincerity.

At this, Lilith cracked a smile and gave Tom a quick hug before retreating off to the girls' dormitories. Tom left the common room looking to take a stroll around the lake, perhaps to take a rest under a tree. He could clear the snow easily enough, and it wouldn't take much effort to start a fire to keep warm, so the cold weather wouldn't be a bother. He had to reign in his thoughts on the morning, after all.

Five days later, students sat at their desks, eagerly anticipating the last class of term. The Slytherin first years were in Defence Against the Dark Arts, about to do battle with a creature they had been preparing for since the beginning of the week. "You have all had plenty of time to prepare yourselves for what you will soon see. You know the charm, and _you_ know best how to counter what you'll find," Professor Merrythought said calmly, strolling over to a drawer of her desk that was rattling. "Now, Mr. Black, would you please step forward?"

Alphard Black stepped up to the centre of the classroom, and at a glance from Professor Merrythought the rest of the class lined up behind him while the desks slid to the edges of the room. Professor Merrythought opened the drawer and stepped aside, unleashing the boggart.

Twelve feet tall and covered in snow white fur, the yeti roared, baring its yellow teeth. Spittle flew from its mouth, hitting Alphard in the face as he stood calmly, fighting back his fear. Tom saw a mighty fist raise and then speed toward the boy. "_Riddikulus!_" he shouted, thrusting his wand forward. The yeti shrank, turning into a small stuffed animal. Alphard stepped aside, allowing another student to take his place.

One by one, the students took it in turns to face down their greatest fears. Abraxas fought off a shambling corpse, making it dig its own grave, and Tom watched curiously as Lilith dealt with abandonment. She saw her family and friends, Tom and Abraxas included, slowly fading away into nothingness. As the form of Tom disappeared from view, Lilith took her wand out and uttered the incantation, wiping a tear from her eye with her free hand, returning her family and friends to her.

It was Tom's turn now, and loath though he was to do this now, with an audience watching him in a moment of utter weakness, he knew that he had no choice but to do it anyway. Backing out now would destroy the reputation, infinitesimal as it was, that Tom had already garnered for himself. No one would look at him as the smartest and cleverest if he could not handle a simple boggart. His companions would see him as weak, pitiful; and he could not stand pity.

Tom stepped forward and saw himself standing alone, the rest of Lilith's family and friends disappearing immediately. The other Tom smiled brightly, and then grimaced as he dropped to his knees, his breathing growing shallower with every passing second. The real Tom stood and watched dispassionately, apparently unconcerned by seeing himself die.

When the boggart ceased all movement, Tom walked up to it and kicked it. There was no response. A small grin grew on the boy's face as he kicked it again, the boggart as lifeless as it had been after the first kick. Tom stepped back into the throng of students, smiling triumphantly, and Richard Lestrange approached tentatively. The boggart did nothing; it did not change forms or move.

"Afraid of me dying, too, are you, Lestrange? The thought is sweet, really, but unnecessary," Tom joked snidely.

Richard sheepishly rejoined the group, saying something about giants. As Tom made his way to the back of the classroom, Professor Merrythought stepped forward and the boggart changed, becoming a woman with long hair and a gaunt face, opening her mouth wide to unleash her unholy wail. But no noise came from the banshee; Professor Merrythought had silenced it. Tom watched as she stepped back and allowed Richard to try again.

Blushing furiously at his previous failure to even call forth his fear from a boggart, a creature whose sole existence was based on doing just that, Richard approached. A giant, twenty feet tall, leered down at them all, glaring stupidly at each one in turn as if daring them to use magic against it. Richard said nothing, pointed his wand, and uttered the word that would give him power in this encounter: _Riddikulus_. The giant shrank, much like the yeti, becoming nothing more than a garden gnome, cursing loudly, and everybody had a hearty laugh at this. The boggart disappeared, bursting into thin wisps of smoke.

Professor Merrythought stepped forward, settling down the class. She cleared her throat, preparing to ask the class the question that was on everybody's mind except Tom's. "Why," she began. "Why do you suppose the boggart kept its form after Mr. Riddle backed away to allow Mr. Lestrange a chance to fight it?"

There were murmurs of confusion and uncertainty at this question. Tom clearly heard someone hypothesize that the boggart had _died_ when it took the form of Tom's fear, though the notion was ridiculous. _Had they not paid attention and seen__ the boggart resume changing forms for people? Hadn't the reason been obvious? Or am I just deluding myself, pretending that they are all smarter than they actually are?_ Tom thought silently. He raised his hand.

"I suppose you know, then, Mr. Riddle?" the Professor asked, clearly knowing the answer herself.

"Yes, I do. And I'd expect children brought up around magic to have figured it out sooner. I'd even expect Muggleborns to figure it out, given it only takes a little logic to know. But really, the reason is simple. What I fear is so powerful, so _primal_, that simply backing off a few feet couldn't break the creature's concentration on me. A fear as basic as the fear of death is like a drug to it. So, as Lestrange retreated, I backed off to the edge of the room as you stepped forward, removing the source of the boggart's distraction from the immediate vicinity. And we all know the rest," he smirked.

"Well said, and precisely correct, Mr. Riddle. Let's see now... I'll give thirty-five points to Slytherin for this class period. Good work, and have a wonderful Christmas break, everyone."

"Come on, Tom," Lilith said, seizing his arm. "We should get going to that party."


	9. Chapter 9: A Private Celebration

"We should get going to that party." The words came again, breaking Tom from his reverie.

"Sure. Let's go put our things away first, though," he responded coolly.

Tom had been thinking about the class when she had said those infernal words, ruining his concentration. He had been trying to figure out what those fears had meant to their owners. He took Alphard's and Richard's fears to be different manifestations of the same basic idea. Neither could deal with humanity's more basic, animal instincts. Coming from such old families, their refined sensibilities would be shaken by a chance encounter with such crudeness.

Abraxas had a more difficult to place fear. That shambling dead body could have been his way of seeing all of his past mistakes returning to destroy his life. Any mistake on his part, even the slightest error, apparently could have dire consequences for Abraxas's future, and he would regret it. By burying his mistakes, dealing with them once and for all, Abraxas could conquer his insecurities.

Lilith's fear was, next to Tom's, the most primal, and the only reason Tom understood it as a fear was because he had lived every day of his life having been abandoned himself. Tom did not share this fear, though. He had conquered it by living through it and making himself stronger because of it. Lilith had included Tom and Abraxas, alone out of all her friends in the group she feared losing. Obviously they served as substitutes for her family while she stayed at Hogwarts.

Tom smiled. He had always been good at reading people, and was quite proud of this fact. Moreover, figuring out things like this about people meant that he would be able to use that information if the need arose. He walked with Lilith to the common room, not looking at her lest he give away his thoughts. They separated once inside, tossing their things onto their beds before reuniting in the common room moments later.

They left the common room together, heading up the stairs to Professor Slughorn's third-floor office. Tom had received his written invitation a few days earlier during breakfast, and he now took it out from his pocket as they approached the door. Lilith looked at him, expectantly, evidently assuming that he would knock, being the one invited to the party. Tom reached out and brought his fist to the door three times in rapid succession before withdrawing and waiting.

A moment later, a small man opened the door, peering at them through small brown eyes. Tom held aloft his invitation, and, satisfied, the man allowed the duo inside. "Look at the house-elves, Tom! I've never seen so many at one time before," Lilith exclaimed as they walked through the room.

Tom looked around, seeing crimson, golden, and green hangings on all the walls. There was a large circular light hanging from the ceiling, casting its dim red glow through the haze of pipe smoke. Tom could barely make out the living faeries flying about the inside of the globe. Eventually he spotted many short creatures with big eyes and pointed ears, all wearing makeshift togas emblazoned with the Hogwarts crest. Each elf carried a tray of _hors d'œuvre_ or drinks, acting as moving kitchenware. One of the elves approached and asked in a squeaky voice "A butterbeer for you, sir and miss?"

"No, thank you," Tom said, uninterested in having food or drink at this party.

"I'll have one," Lilith said, giving Tom a look that clearly said that he was inexperienced in the magical world if he was being polite towards a house-elf.

They milled around, taking in everything they saw, Lilith constantly sipping on her butterbeer. Older wizards and witches were discussing politics together. Some were speaking with older students, likely to be future colleagues or old family friends. In addition, there, standing next to Professor Slughorn...

"Tom! That's Roderick Plumpton!"

Sure enough, Tom saw the man whose picture had appeared in those twelve year old papers, the retired Seeker who held the record for fastest capture of the Golden Snitch in history. "Three-and-a-half seconds," Tom said, turning toward Lilith.

"We have to meet him. Tom, Professor Slughorn likes you. Come on!"

They sidled up to Professor Slughorn and Roderick Plumpton without being noticed. A moment later Professor Slughorn set his wine down on a nearby table before spotting the two first years. "What's this – oh, Tom! Tom, m'boy, and you brought a lady friend, too. This is Roderick Plumpton, the finest Seeker the world has ever seen."

The man next to Professor Slughorn grinned, his face flushed with colour. His greying black hair and pale blue eyes gave him a distinguished look in Tom's opinion. Lilith and Roderick soon launched into a long discussion on Quidditch, which Tom chose not to take part in. Rather, Tom stood by as Professor Slughorn spoke with a quaint man with light brown hair.

"Ah, Mr. Undersecretary," Slughorn beamed. "You look well today."

"Horace, thank you, but why so formal? You taught me, after all. Please, just call me Nobby, or at least Mr. Leach, like you did in school," the other man said, feigning embarrassment but swelling with pride.

"If it really suits you, Nobby. But, really, there's no reason not to use your title."

"Whatever you say, Horace. And who's this young man?" the Undersecretary said, turning toward Tom with a look of curiosity.

"That would be Tom Riddle, one of the bright young minds of the next generation. A dab hand at potions, and you should hear how the other teachers speak of him..." Professor Slughorn went on.

After a short while, Lilith rejoined him, completely nonplussed by being so near such a high-ranking Ministry official, and far more excited about having just gotten an autograph from Roderick Plumpton. A few minutes later, she had had enough of the party, and so they returned to their dorms, Christmas break to begin the next day.

Tom awoke on Christmas day in a grumpy mood. Having had no one around for the past few days, being the only Slytherin to stay behind, he had been free to release his pent up frustrations. He was free to scream, to shout himself hoarse over his failing to find his father thus far. Christmas wasn't helping either. For Tom, Christmas had never been a joyous occasion. He had never received a gift beyond the occasional pair of shoes when the ones he had would no longer fit.

He recalled going to chapel with all the other children, inwardly cursing the whole affair. He had never been a religious boy, always sceptical and questioning about whether or not he was being fed the truth each Sunday. He recalled bitterly the reprimands and swipes at his hands made with rulers that he received for daring to say that there would be no rewards or pleasurable afterlife for anyone, only pain and suffering, or absolutely nothing for those who were lucky.

Tom got out of bed and made for the sink to wash his face, gazing upon his bed in the mirror, thinking about simply returning to it for the rest of the day. Strangely, there were a few parcels near the foot of his bed. As this registered with Tom, he made his way back, examining the gifts. There were four packages sitting next to his bed. He grasped the smallest first, seeing that it was from Abraxas. There was a new money pouch inside, filled with coins, along with a note.

_I know you don't come from much, so I figured that I could give you some cash to help you out so you don't have to rely on the student fund._

_ -__Abraxas_

"He thinks I'm his charity case, then," Tom sneered. He tossed the pouch aside, unsure what to do with it quite yet.

The next package was from Alphard, and upon opening it, Tom found a case of butterbeer. Tom pointedly ignored the note this time, and moved on to Richard's gift. A copy of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2_ greeted him, along with a strip of parchment telling Tom that since he would have no use for the first year course book soon enough, he might as well start studying ahead before summer.

The last gift was from Lilith, and as he guessed it would be, he unboxed a full case of chocolate frogs. Thirty-six frogs meant thirty-six cards. Thirty-six cards meant thirty-six new magical history factoids. At least Lilith and Richard had chosen gifts Tom would immediately like, practical gifts. He didn't much care for the butterbeer, and he was still less than accepting of the notion that he was to be someone's charity case. Tom didn't want to rely on other peoples' money for longer than necessary.

By Tom's twelfth birthday on the thirty-first, he had figured out what to do with the money. He was on his seventh frog, today finding a Herpo the Foul card, and decided that the best use of the fifty galleons was to purchase spellbooks so he could pocket the leftover from his needy students' funds.

"Just another week until everyone's back and classes start," Tom said to himself as he went to bed that night, watching Herpo scratch his nose and Salazar twirl his wand lazily. "Maybe I'll find father this term. There's bound to be something."


	10. Chapter 10: Alchemy

The second term was upon them all, and as Richard had predicted with his Christmas gift to Tom, the boy was quickly running out of things to learn from _The Standard Book of Spells _by Egradius Earnshaw. Tom had never even bothered learning some of the charms, like _Alohomora_, because he could already unlock locks more efficiently with the magic he had harnessed as a child.

Indeed, Tom had mastered some powerful magic as a child. He still wasn't sure exactly how, but he had made Billy Stubbs's rabbit and, later, Dennis Bishop and Amy Benson do exactly as he had desired. He had made the other children cry out in pain when they annoyed him, though there was no visible source. Doors flew open when he willed it so, locks not being the slightest obstacle.

Of course, when it came to class and using the _Alohomora_ charm, Tom put forth the appearance that he was doing the work. He would point his wand lazily, mutter the word without enthusiasm, and would simply assert his will. It all looked the same in the end, and Professor Flitwick was none the wiser.

Tom spent much of his time in class reclining in his seat, watching the progress of his classmates. If a professor turned to him, he did the required assignment instantly and perfectly. Tom was reading ahead for History of Magic, taking the class periods as opportunities to work ahead in Charms and Transfiguration.

It had been a couple of weeks since Christmas, and Tom was well underway in using his gifts. He looked over his small collection of chocolate frog cards, Slytherin and Herpo the Foul still being the most interesting, and he still had roughly two dozen unopened frogs left. He opened one during breakfast on a downcast morning in mid-January, finding the man on the card to be dressed in the garments of an Egyptian High Priest.

"Who's that one, Tom?" Abraxas asked curiously, trying to get a good look at the card.

"It says he was called Manethon of Sebennytos. 'Rumoured to have lived for three hundred years before he was killed, Manetho, as he is better known historically, ruled Ptolemaic Egypt from behind the scenes. Credited with authoring _Aegyptiaca_, he was born nearly two and a half thousand years ago.'"

"Never heard of him," Richard said. "You'd think he wouldn't have a card if all he did was write a book with a title no one can pronounce."

"Maybe it was an important book about Egyptian history," Lilith replied.

Tom sat back, half-listening to the conversation that brewed up around him. He was disgusted that no one had yet shown curiosity about how Manethon was supposed to have lived for three centuries. Tom recalled his Muggle schooling, reading about the so-called alchemists who paved the way for modern science, trying in vain to search for or create a Philosopher's Stone.

He momentarily drove these thoughts out of his mind. He wasn't even sure that alchemy was real, whether there really were alchemists in this world. He would have to look for that information on his own time, taking away from the time that would otherwise be devoted to finding his father and proof of his magic.

They sat for a moment longer, none of the others able to figure out exactly what the _Aegyptiaca_ was supposed to be, already having forgotten Manethon's rumoured lifespan. Tom, however, could only think of that fact. He stared at the card, studying the High Priest who looked back at him. The portrait of the sorcerer must have been made early in his life, before he had rendered himself immortal. He still appeared young, vibrant, and full of life. There was no way the portrait was modelled after the man after he had ruled Egypt for two hundred or more years.

Transfiguration was easy enough that day. They were doing more difficult transfigurations now, transforming complex inanimate objects into simpler ones. Tom was ahead, as usual, working on making an old Muggle pocket watch transform into a tea kettle. It wasn't that hard, actually. The secret was concentration; the more focused one was, the better the result.

After classes ended for the day, Tom made another visit to the library. He searched the shelves, trying to find any book that might contain information on alchemy. There wasn't much there to take from. Tom had found a total of three books to show for his efforts. He checked out _The Alchemist's Guidebook_,_ The Golden Life Eternal_,and _Transmutation Permutations_.

Tom started with _The Alchemist's Guidebook_, finding himself utterly engrossed with the subject. There was far more to alchemy than he had expected. While the Philosopher's Stone was the holy grail of alchemists everywhere, it is not the sole achievement of the field. Far more impressive was the emphasis on circle magic for use in Transfigurations, the involvement in the history of ancient runes, and wards.

He realised that one could, with relative ease, utilise alchemy to set up even the most basic of protections, improving in innumerable ways upon its effectiveness. A door could be hidden until the correct substance was introduced to it, providing a nearly foolproof method of hiding a location. This was all thoroughly interesting to Tom, and he decided that at some point he would have to copy these notes over for future study.

Oddly enough, he thought, what the Muggles knew of the "fabled" Philosopher's Stone was almost identical to what wizards knew. The Stone could be used, so long as its power remained intact, to transmute any metal into pure gold. Under the same conditions, it could also be used to generate the Elixir of Life. Any man who drank of the Elixir would expand his life until he either stopped taking the draught and died naturally later or was killed.

Something just wasn't adding up to Tom, though. Manethon had lived nearly two-and-a-half millennia past, yet the only record of the Philosopher's Stone was a little less than six hundred years old. Stranger still, European and African records on the practice of alchemy itself only extended back a thousand years with any results. The early experiments, undertaken prior to extensive written record in Europe, only dated back fifteen hundred years. Ancient Egypt was credited with the very first tentative steps, before this time, and though their concern was immortality, the evidence suggested that they largely failed at this.

It was true that alchemy extended back to Manethon's time in China, but Chinese wizards were as isolationist as Chinese Muggles in that time. How exactly did Manethon have a Philosopher's Stone nineteen hundred years before the only known instance, a thousand years before even the first tentative steps toward modern alchemy had even been taken in the West? How had he achieved the goal of immortality, something the early Egyptian alchemists aspired to, so long before anyone else and without the knowledge later alchemists had? They had the notion that one could be immortal, but they had no means to make it so. What was missing? Was it possible that Manethon found a way beyond alchemy to become immortal?

Tom went to bed that night determined to one day figure out that mystery. First, however, he had to get back to his priority: his father's magic. Arranging his favourite cards on his bedside table, Tom gave them each the onceover before he decided to sleep. Salazar seemed to be giving Tom an approving look and Herpo was speaking with his pet snake. Manethon stared straight ahead, mouthing a something, a word with two syllables. Puzzled, Tom watched more carefully, but Manethon was now staring regally ahead, his lips still. Assuring himself that he had imagined Manethon attempting to communicate with him, Tom put it out of his mind and turned in for the night.


	11. Chapter 11: A Labour of Love

"Aha! Bacon, sweet bacon, you are mine at long last!" Lilith exclaimed triumphantly, holding aloft a strip of the aforementioned food.

"Why do you always take my bacon, Lilith? There's a plate full of it just inches away from you, and yet you somehow see the need to ignore it so you can thieve mine! Why not steal from Alphard, or Avery?" Abraxas implored, frustrated that he now lost some of his bacon to Lilith's predation at every breakfast. "I mean, I'm the only one whose breakfast is pillaged day in and day out."

Lilith sighed and fixed her brown eyes of Abraxas's grey ones. Moving her hair aside so that he could see her face as she spoke, she began, speaking slowly as if to a small child who may not understand. "Well, I take your food because you eat the same things I like to eat. Avery and Alphard don't eat bacon very often, and I just can't stand kippers.

"Besides that, Richard sits too far away for me to be able to reach his bacon, and Tom hardly eats at all." Tom looked up from his book at the mention of his name and went right back to _The Golden Life Eternal_ when he realised that no one had spoken to him. He was utterly engrossed and had missed all of this.

"And anyway," Lilith continued as Abraxas opened his mouth to yet again point out the platter just inches to her right. "I like watching your silly little attempts to protect your bacon and steal my eggs. They're funny. You never learn and it never gets old."

Abraxas gaped, shocked to find out that she stole his food for laughs, but resigned himself to the fact that he would never sit through another breakfast in this hall without his bacon being accosted.

"Still reading up on that alchemy stuff, Tom?" he asked, turning to the boy next to him and trying not to look miffed that Lilith chose this as another opportunity to steal his bacon. "I thought you said that Mantho, or whatever his name was, couldn't have used alchemy since it came long after his time or something."

Tom moved his bookmark to the current page and closed the book, placing it in his satchel. He looked up, wearing the same look Lilith had used when she began to educate Abraxas about her bacon thievery. "Yes, Abraxas, I am still reading up on alchemy. And yes, I did say that Manethon could never have used alchemy as it did not exist as a fully developed discipline outside of certain ancient Chinese traditions until over a thousand years after his time."

"So then why are you reading it?" chimed in Richard from Tom's left, munching on his own bacon, bacon that was completely safe from Lilith.

"Because it's fascinating," Tom said, swiftly filching a strip each from Abraxas and Richard. "There, now stop asking stupid questions. That kind of behaviour is reserved for Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. Besides, don't you want to start on our Valentine's prank?"

"Not you too, Tom! Can't I have my bacon be left in peace for one moment?"

"At some point in the future, sure, Abraxas, but that time is not now," Tom said between bites. "Now, unless anyone else would like to give an idea, I have chosen a victim for the Valentine's Day prank. Come on, speak up, I would like some variety in the idea!"

"Richard and I have been talking, and came up with a rough idea," Avery began.

"Yeah. We think that we should interrupt the Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw match on Valentine's Day," Richard concluded.

"And what, pray tell, does Quidditch have to do with Valentine's Day?" Tom sneered, eager to hear more of their plan before completely shooting it down. He wanted the prank to make some sense, now they had the ability to do some mildly interesting magic.

"Not much, I suppose," Avery muttered, disheartened that the idea would be discarded so quickly.

"Yeah, I suppose it has about as much as stones and invisibility potions have to do with Halloween, eh, Tom?" Richard chided back.

Tom had nothing to say to this, as the point was valid, and simply nodded. When the others still failed to elaborate upon their idea, Tom lost his patience. "Well, go on, then! What's the rest of your brilliant plan?"

"Well, like Richard said, Wednesday's Valentine's Day. It also happens to be the date of the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw," Avery said carefully.

"Yes, and we have already been made aware of this fact," Tom said, emphasising just how bored he was by the information that had so far been made available. "Could we speed this up? At this rate, the prank will have to wait until next Valentine's Day."

"We think a bit of public humiliation for one of the players is in order," Richard concluded. "Send a public declaration of love for a professor up to the announcer's box during the match. You know Wilkes will read anything that's sent up there."

This was true. Evan Wilkes, a second year Hufflepuff who was liked by pretty much everyone in the school, would say very nearly anything that came to him while he announced. Professor Dumbledore allowed it, as the boy never made anyone look bad, either.

"That's perfect, as the victim I was thinking of just so happens to be a Gryffindor Chaser and I now know exactly what her owl looks like, too," Tom said as he stared at the girl, who was tying a letter to her owl.

"There's no way you can be serious about this, Tom. That's Minerva McGonagall!" Lilith exclaimed in a loud whisper as she followed Tom's line of sight.

"Have you ever known him not to be serious?" Abraxas asked, somewhat awed by Tom's formidable choice of a victim. Everyone knew that McGonagall was on the fast track toward becoming a prefect in two years and Head Girl in her seventh year. "And if she finds out it was us?"

"She won't. Alphard will take the letter Lilith writes, expressing the girl's love for Professor Dumbledore, to the owlery. I will take the letter to her owl and it will deliver the letter to Wilkes during the match," Tom explained, laying out the plan that had formed in his head. "It will appear as if she timed the arrival of the letter for during the match."

Valentine's Day afternoon came and Lilith carried the written letter to Alphard, who placed it in his robes. He ate lunch and scribbled on a sheet of parchment as if he was writing a letter. Excusing himself, he made his way to the owlery and handed it off to Tom, who looked up and spotted Minerva's screech owl.

He beckoned it toward him and soon enough it came, much in the same way Billy's rabbit had done when he had made it hang itself from the rafters. He tied the letter to the bird's leg and said quite plainly "Take this to the announcer's box at the Quidditch pitch in fifteen minutes."

The owl tilted its head and hooted once, which Tom assumed was a positive sign, before Tom left for the pitch. Fighting through the stands, he found that he had been saved a seat. Tom had never bothered to come to a Quidditch match before this one, though he had supposed it would only be a matter of time before he did so anyway.

As Tom sat down, he heard Wilkes's voice clearly coming through the magical megaphone, carrying over the din of the crowd.

"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore, and welcome, Hogwarts, to what promises to be an exciting match between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw teams! First, I give you the Gryffindor team, led by Captain and Chaser Peter Smith! Put your hands together for Minerva McGonagall, Charlus Potter, Martin Wood, Ignatius Prewett, William Weasley, and Roland Longbottom! "

The noise from the Gryffindors in the stands was deafening. Tom could see Professor Dumbledore crack a smile at the behaviour of his students.

"And I now give you the Ravenclaw team, led by Captain and Seeker Willard Jones! Give a round of applause for Carmen Walters, John Lupin, Jack Dexter, Caspar Crouch, Vincent Manning, and Michael Chambers!"

There was another deafening roar, from the Ravenclaws this time, though it was not nearly as boisterous as that of the Gryffindors. Mr. Black, the flying instructor and Quidditch referee who also happened to be Alphard's great-uncle, had captains Smith and Jones shake hands as he released the Golden Snitch and the Bludgers.

He blew his whistle and tossed the Quaffle into the air, at which point –

"It's Lupin, the new acquisition for Ravenclaw, with the Quaffle. He ducks Potter and makes a pass to Walters – She avoids McGonagall and just – Oh! Bludger from Will Weasley makes her drop it, but Dexter picks it up from her, Smith on her tail and – It's in the hoop! Ten-zero, Ravenclaw is in the lead!"

Tom watched the game unfold, fascinated by how nimble they all seemed on those brooms. He had mastered flight easily enough during the class, though he in no way cared for having a broomstick between his legs whilst he soared through the air. After another couple of minutes, the Gryffindors had reversed their fortunes, putting away four goals.

"And Crouch is just not on his game today, letting Gryffindor slip their fifth goal past him. Walters has it – Manning puts a Bludger in Potter's face before he can get to Walters. She's made it to Wood and – He saves it!

"McGonagall with the Quaffle now – Prewett sends a Bludger past her into Chambers, trying to unseat the unfriendly Beater. She speeds past Walters and Dexter, with Lupin hot on her tail. He tries to get a hand on the Quaffle and – Well, if that's not cobbing, I don't know what is!"

She had just thrown an elbow right into Lupin's face, nearly sending him off his broom. He appeared to be bleeding slightly from the bridge of his nose. Mr. Black blew the whistle and awarded Lupin a penalty shot, which he took and made, bringing the score to fifty-twenty, Gryffindor still leading. Some watched curiously as a screech owl flew into the announcer's box, but Tom and the rest of his companions continued watching the game as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

"Professor, it seems I've got a letter. The envelope says to read it out loud, as it's an announcement from one of the players," Wilkes said as he opened the letter, taking his mind off the game for just a moment.

"I, Minerva McGonagall, Chaser for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, dedicate this match and the obvious Gryffindor victory it will result in, to the love of my life – Professor Albus Dumbledore!"

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Half of each team turned and gawped in the direction of the announcer's box while roars of laughter erupted in the stands. Professor Dumbledore looked both bemused and slightly embarrassed for Minerva as he gently prodded Wilkes to take up the megaphone again and continue commenting on the match. For her part, Minerva had the Quaffle and turned her head as she heard her name, ploughing directly into Carmen Walters, who was similarly distracted. One of the Bludgers, unopposed by any Beater, slammed into them both, striking and clearly breaking each girl's collarbone.

The Quaffle fell to the ground below, unnoticed and unmissed by anyone. Wilkes recovered enough to say "Well, that was certainly unexpected, but as it is Valentine's Day, we should hope for such confessions of love. So, let's get back to the match, shall we? Er, I know for a fact that this next question should never be asked in a Quidditch match, but... Does anyone know where the Quaffle went? Oh! Jones is in a dive!"

Jones was, in fact, diving toward the Gryffindor goalposts, Longbottom far behind and sure to never catch up. He swept out of the dive, holding his hand up high, tightly clutching the glittering ball of gold and wearing a glowing smile upon his face.

The sound was deafening, the cheering louder than it had been at the introduction of their team, as Ravenclaw was announced the winner by one hundred and seventy to fifty. As the students filed back into the castle, Tom could hear McGonagall repeatedly apologising to Professor Dumbledore.

"I swear, sir," she started. "I did not write that note. Yes, it was my owl that delivered it, but I did not write nor did I authorise the writing of such a note. I am deeply sorry for any embarrassment this must have caused you –"

"Minerva, please stop," Professor Dumbledore said calmly. "I know you did not write that dedication, and I know that you feel quite distressed by it. Do not allow the idle pranks of others to trouble you so, my dear. You only hand over control of your life when you do. Now, I suggest you go to the Hospital Wing. That Bludger seems to have broken your clavicle, judging by the way you're holding your left arm up."

She stopped as he continued on toward the castle, considering his words, as Tom watched them both. Dumbledore looked pleased enough with how that had went, and Minerva looked absolutely stricken. Evidently the professor's words had not helped her as much as the man had hoped. Tom grinned and searched out his friends again. Upon finding them, he told them "It feels great to see a plan unfold so perfectly, doesn't it?"


	12. Chapter 12: What's in a Name?

The weeks marched forward as winter gave way to spring and February gave way to March. Tom had completed his alchemical readings and had resumed the search for his father. He still occasionally paused to question other matters that he thought of. He pondered exactly what means Manethon had used to live for so long more than he did any other subject, though he was no closer to an answer now than he had been when he settled that it was not by the use of a Philosopher's Stone.

The others were still excited about the prank from Valentine's Day; glad to have gotten away with this much more sophisticated and entertaining prank than their Halloween one. Tom, true to his forward-thinking nature, considered the prank to be closed business after the fact. It was not something he would bring up into a conversation; nor was it worth discussing past deeds with him, as he always thought toward the future, toward the next prank.

"Tom! Tom! Listen to me, Tom!" Lilith was nearly shouting now, trying to get his attention in the near-empty common room. It was just Tom, Lilith, and Abraxas on this night in late March, as Alphard, Avery, and Richard were serving detention with Flitwick for horseplay during Charms class. They had moved a few armchairs toward the fireplace, taking the common room as their place of study this night rather than the library as most others did. The cold of the dungeons was, apparently, not an issue for these three.

"What is it?" Tom asked, looking up from his essay on basic locomotion charms. He had just written a foot on the theory behind basic levitation, even going as far as to describe how such magic might form the basis of unaided flight, something tirelessly sought but never achieved.

"I'm writing my essay for Binns, and I can't remember the reason for Erkran the Elf-Killer's revolt against wizards. I know it had to do with goblin rights and house-elves, but I don't remember any more. Can you help, please? I only need another two inches."

"Sure. I'm only going to say it once, though, so write fast. About three hundred years ago, the members of the Wizard's Council wouldn't extend the magic binding house-elves to their human masters to allow goblins to be masters as well. So Erkran got some like-minded goblins together and went about killing elves in a short rebellion that ended when Nathaniel the Noble killed him. Nathaniel restored the natural order of wizard over elf, preventing the goblins from grabbing power that was not theirs to take in the first place."

"Thanks, Tom! That's just what I needed to finish off this essay. I can never pay attention to Binns. I really don't know how you do it."

"He doesn't," Abraxas said curtly, lifting his head from his own Transfiguration essay. "He stopped paying attention ages ago, reading ahead on his own time. He reads up on Charms and Transfiguration during class. 'Course, I still don't get how he stays awake throughout. How _do_ you do it, Tom?"

"It's called having superior powers of concentration and more total brainpower, my mentally inferior comrade," Tom jokingly remarked back.

"Or, perhaps, there's nothing up there in your head to dull out with that droning voice. That could also explain it, with the added advantage of not having to invent such a thing as immunity to Binns's voice," Abraxas retorted.

"My marks beg to differ on this one. A foal brays, Max," Tom said nonchalantly.

"I'll concede the point on your brains, then, Tom. But what in the world did you mean by that last part?" Abraxas asked, indignant, as Lilith watched the exchange with a grin.

"It's an anagram of your name. That's when the letters in a word or words get rearranged to make new words. I'm vile 'till Hell over there seems to find it amusing, anyway," Tom answered, throwing Lilith a crooked smile. "It even goes along with the origins of your name, Lilith."

"And _what_ do you mean by that?"

"Well, with your given name it's obvious. The first demon, first wife of Adam, refused to submit to the will of Adam and was cursed for eternity for daring to claim equality to a man, according to some religious Muggles. She was called Lilith. Your surname also fits a bit. 'Mel' and 'ville' are the key parts of the name Melville, aren't they? 'Mel' is a corruption of the Latin _malus _for wicked. 'Wicked ville' comes out to 'wicked village' or 'wicked settlement'."

"Really, now? And why have you been researching my name, Tom?" Lilith asked with a tone of mock annoyance.

"What? Knowing stupid myths I was educated in when I was in school with a bunch of Muggle children? Being able to corrupt the word 'village' down to 'ville'? Knowing that the Spanish word _mal_ is derived from the Latin _malus_ and that 'mel' is a simple corruption from there? I haven't researched your name at all. I only applied a bit of thought to it. Why? You want me to have researched it?" Tom asked, realising that he may have been harsher in his asking than he had intended.

"I'd like it if you had needed at least a little research to figure out the meaning in my name." Lilith said back, clenching and unclenching her fist, truly annoyed now.

"Well, when I spend my idle time looking at names, I have to look to other people. There's not much you can get out of mine. 'Tom' is a boring, common, and altogether unremarkable name without any actual meaning. And 'Riddle' contains no mystery, as the extent of its meaning is the word itself. I'm _so_ sorry that I think about names when I get bored."

"You're impossible, Tom," she spat, standing up. With that, Lilith took her essay and stormed down the staircase to the girls' dormitories.

"What's with her today?" Tom wondered aloud when she was out of earshot. Looking to Abraxas, he continued on. "One moment she's asking me for detailed information, the next she's angry that I provide it!"

"Well, Tom, I think I can sum it up in a few sentences, at least. You may be good at being charming for the teachers, but girls our age are a different matter entirely. They've got no sense in them! And you, as odd as it may sound to your ears, lack tact," Abraxas replied sagely.

"I lack tact? You can't be serious. You were right with the first part. Girls our age have no sense whatsoever. I'm going to the library. I've got research to do."

Tom left the common room, taking his essay with him. Abraxas sat back in his chair with only the scratching of his quill to keep him company. "Leaving abruptly is merely another form of rudeness, which comes expertly to those who lack tact," he muttered sagely.


	13. Chapter 13: By Any Other Name

"She's gone completely round the bend if she's so affronted by the notion of a boy who is literate, intelligent, and inquisitive. So what if I can figure out her name? I think. She knows that thinking is what I do!" Tom fumed as he entered the library.

"Why can't she see that intelligence is something to be proud of, to be congratulated rather than denigrated? Abraxas was completely right. Girls. Are. Positively. Mental," he muttered, setting his usual stack of _Prophets_ in front of him. He had made this same speech to himself every time he commenced his research since the incident.

The past month had been a period of unrelenting research for Tom, as well as an incessant need to ponder the mental state of the female species. When he was not focused on finding his father, a search that seemed bleaker after each failed night, Tom wondered exactly what had been wrong with Lilith on that day and since. She had not spoken to him once, attempted to be partners in class, eaten at the same time as Tom, or even looked in his general direction. She had made it quite apparent that she wanted nothing to do with Tom Riddle or his lack of proper manners, even going as far as to insinuate that he acted like a Mudblood to the rest of the girls in Slytherin.

Tom, who by now understood this insult from regular conversation in Slytherin House, merely shook his head in disbelief. The very notion that only Muggle blood ran through his veins was ludicrous, in his mind. His talent, his flawless mastery of the first year course requirements, was unparalleled. Once he found his father, once the stupid rat bastard was finally proven to be of magical blood once and for all, Tom would be able to vindicate himself from such insults forever.

He had spent the past month trying to do just that, ceaselessly trying to find Tom Riddle in the _Daily Prophet_. There had been nothing important, and nearly nothing of interest from July through October. There was one incident, highly interesting though wholly unimportant, where a large tribe of North American yeti made trouble in coastal Canada. The damage occurred over such a large area that the Canadian Ministry of Magic was forced to worsen the damage to make the cover-up story for the Muggles – that a hurricane had hit the coast – seem plausible.

He now flipped furiously through November, the only headline of note that there had been a total eclipse over Northern England and Wales. There was nothing else, not one mention of Tom Riddle. December was worse. There was not a single item of interest. Indeed, his birthday had some of the blandest headlines of the year.

In a rage that he had spent so long, had come so far with his search, and had emerged with nothing, Tom flicked his wand at the newspapers before him. Bluebell flames danced out of his wand, engulfing the old parchment. The words and the surface they were written on smouldered and turned to ash. After a few moments digging through his bag, Tom found a bottle he could coax the flames into. Securing the lid tightly, he dropped the bottle of fire into his bag and left the library, passing the old librarian on his way out. She saw the ashes upon the table and rounded on Tom, who merely flicked his wand over his shoulder, causing books to fly off the shelves at her, as he descended the stairs toward the Great Hall.

Tom carefully opened the door and slinked into the huge room, keeping to the shadows. He wasn't willing to take any chances that Pringle might be there, hard of hearing and nearly blind as he may have been. If the caretaker caught Tom out of bed after hours, and it was definitely after hours now, he would receive a detention with Professor Slughorn.

Ducking behind tables at the slightest noise, Tom eventually made his way to an alcove just off from the west end of the High Table. He found the door he was looking for and, quickly darting inside, jogged down the staircase into the trophy room.

Beginning with the nearest trophy, Tom started searching. Every name was double-, triple-checked under the light of Tom's wand. Every trophy given in the past seventy years, each plaque that had been updated at any point in the same time period, everything underwent this scrutiny.

The lists of prefects and Head Boys held no secrets. The only name Tom saw that had even had any impact in his life was that of Albus Dumbledore.

"Of course," he rolled his eyes. "What else could be expected from the Deputy Headmaster?" Tom muttered under his breath as he moved on to past Gobstones Club presidents.

It was another dead end, and each new choice of trophies and plaques brought Tom no closer to the answer he sought. The Wizard's Chess League, Exploding Snap Club, and list of students who scored 'Outstanding' on five or more subjects at the O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. levels yielded similarly uninteresting results.

Tom awoke the next morning, 1923 Inter-House Quidditch Cup results clutched tightly in his hands. He started, dropping the plaque as comprehension dawned on him. He had fallen asleep in the trophy room, and he had still not found anything that might point him toward his father. There was nothing in the newspapers, nothing in any of the school records that he had access to, nothing anywhere.

Tom felt as if he had exhausted every avenue available to him as he went up the stairs, opening the door and walking past Professor Merrythought on his way to breakfast. He sat down next to Abraxas and rested his head on the empty plate in front of him, blankly staring at the omelette on a nearby platter as he felt his world crash down around him. Abraxas looked at Tom quizzically, then smirked as the boy sat bolt upright, a wild gleam in his eye, before sprinting out of the Hall.

Lilith sat down where Tom had been moments before, receiving a cold stare from Abraxas. She sighed. Ever since she and Tom had stopped speaking, he had been stuck in the middle. She had been short with him as well, and he had not tolerated it. "Either you two get over yourselves and figure this out or you don't. I don't care anymore. If you and Tom don't start speaking again, I won't speak with either of you. And don't even think about touching my bacon," he warned before standing, to move down the table and retrieve some toast.

Tom was sitting in Professor Merrythought's third-floor office, staring at the different paintings of creatures that adorned the walls. He recognised a bony, emaciated creature in the tank resting upon the desk as a Grindylow. He waited, watching the creature curiously, turning to greet Professor Merrythought when she entered.

"Why, hello Mr. Riddle. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" the old woman asked kindly, locking eyes with her young student. "You needn't worry about your marks; I can assure you of that."

"Nothing like that, Professor, I have no worries in your class. If I have my facts in order, you have been teaching here since before Professors Dumbledore and Slughorn were born, yes?" Tom opened cautiously, hoping that she could confirm his fading hopes.

"Yes, I have. Is that relevant to what you have to ask me today?"

"It is, ma'am. Could you please tell me if you have ever taught another student by the name of Tom Riddle?" he asked, looking down at his feet with shame, shame that he had had to resort to this last means to salvage his hopes.

She looked at the boy before her, knowing just how embarrassing a question this must be to ask. She searched her memory, taking several minutes before answering with a fateful "I'm sorry, Mr. Riddle. I have never taught a student by that name before you."

Tom continued staring at his feet, his face not betraying the roiling battle that raged inside of him. Part of him hated the old woman in front of him for crushing his last hope of discovering his father to be magical. Another part of him hated his father, more than Tom had ever hated the man before. That despicable Muggle, that _scum_, had abandoned his mother and left her to her death. Even worse, Tom now had no idea what to think about his mother. Could it possibly be that _she_ was a witch?

"I'll tell no one about this, if you wish. We never have to acknowledge that this conversation ever took place," Professor Merrythought supplied as Tom shuffled his feet but made no attempt to respond.

"Thank – Thank you, Professor," he weakly stammered before leaving the room, lost in his misery.

Unsure of himself and his place in the world, Tom managed to arrive in the Slytherin common room a few minutes later. He went straight down to his dormitory, determined to go to bed and make sense of the horrible knowledge that threatened to destroy his mind, throwing his bag into his trunk. Pulling open the curtains around his bed, which he thought he had left open the night before when he went to the library, he found someone he had not expected.

Lilith sat on the bed, clearly waiting for him. She broke into a weak smile and said "I'm sorry, Tom."

He stared expressionlessly for a moment. "What?"

"I said that I'm sorry, Tom."

"Okay," he said, not caring to deal with the girl at the moment and only saying what he knew would get her out of his bed fastest, and she brightened a little. "Now, please, get off my bed and never call me by that _foul_ name ever again."


	14. Chapter 14: Marvolo

**A/N: Sorry to not be updating as often. School has caught up with me, and I'm only now getting a breather. Please do continue reading and letting me know what you think. Thank you to all my regular readers.**

"Lilith! It's okay, Lilith. Now tell us again. Tell us exactly what he said," Abraxas repeated. Richard, Alphard, and Avery all nodded.

"I told you already. I was waiting for him on his bed so I could apologise. He really knows how to straighten his bed out. There were no creases at all. A house- elf couldn't even make it that well..." she trailed off.

"Forget the bed. So he opened the curtains and saw you. Then what?" Richard asked scathingly, losing his patience.

"He opened the curtains. I told him I was sorry. I even smiled! He asked me what I said, and I told him again. 'I said that I'm sorry, Tom' I said."

"And..." one of the boys began.

"And he said 'okay' and then he told me never to call him by that name again."

"Let's start with the first part. He accepted the apology. That means you two can talk to each other again and you don't have to be angry all the time," Abraxas said.

"I'm never angry," she said indignantly, but he just waved her off.

"The second thing, though," Alphard started. "He told you not to call him by that name again. Did he mean Mudblood? You have been letting on he was acting like one for the past month, after all."

"No! He didn't mean Mudblood!" She looked terrified and hurt that she had actually done such a thing as try to slander Tom's name. "I think he meant his name. I don't think he wants to be Tom anymore. I think he just wants to forget that name forever."

"Did he tell you what to call him, then?" This question came from Avery.

"No. He just said never to call him by that name again," she repeated. "He said it was a foul name."

The Slytherin boys sat back, contemplating, unsure what else there was to ask. They all knew that there wasn't much to go on. Abraxas spoke again, breaking the silence.

"If he doesn't want to be Tom, who is he going to be? Merlin? Bernard? Marcus? Ferdinand? Manuel? Gregory? Mar—"

"Marvolo," responded the calm, cool voice of the boy who entered the room. He brushed aside his raven hair, gazing at the five who sat in front of him, mouths agape. None thought he would have come up this early in the morning. There were no visible signs of the boy's mental distress from the day before.

Silently daring any of them to say a thing about his new name, he walked toward them. He looked each of them in the eye, finding the sudden silence to be a nervous one. "You will call me Marvolo from this day forward."

"Sorry, but why?" Avery had the stupid curiosity to ask this question. If looks could kill, the look he received in response would have killed every member of his family.

"We just want to understand your decision, _Marvolo_," Lilith said, emphasising the new name and hoping that he might answer her.

He looked at her, considering. He would still have to endure being called Tom by professors and unfamiliar students. Total escape from his name wouldn't be available for more than six years. These, his few companions, he could afford to tell the truth. It would be necessary; nobody trusts liars, and he hated the idea that he could not be trusted. He needed a select few to be able to trust him, all the better to take his words as fact and act upon them. The adoption of the new name came with a cold, detached sense of reality, much more so than the boy had ever had in the past, at least.

"Fine, I'll tell you," he began. "Swear to me that you will only call me by Tom if anyone other than the six of us is present or in the general area. Swear to me that nothing I tell you now will ever pass through your lips in the future."

They all swore that this would be the case.

"I started searching for my father in the _Daily Prophet_ shortly after school started. I had figured out what his name was when a few bits and pieces of information I'd gathered came together," he started, adding a slight falsification. Not a lie, he reasoned, only an embellishment. Actually, he noted, it was less an embellishment, really, and much more of a displacement of when it had happened. "I spent until yesterday looking in the newspapers and found nothing. I looked in the trophy room, through the school records. I fell asleep in there last night, holding Quidditch results.

"I found nothing. Then I talked to Professor Merrythought. Anyone young enough to be my father would have been taught by her. He wasn't. It was then that I knew I could not escape it any longer. He was a Muggle."

Abraxas hung his head, his words from the train proven correct. Lilith stared, unsure of what to think. Richard and Avery merely nodded, showing their comprehension.

Alphard was the one to break the silence as his favourite second cousin, Lucretia, entered the common room. "My uncle Marius is a Squib –"

"You'd better not let Walburga hear you talking about him, Al. She'll tell Aunt Irma, and she won't like that at all," she said before heading down the staircase to the third year girls' dormitories.

"Anyway," Alphard continued once she was out of earshot. "Aunt Dorea and Lucretia don't really care, but Walburga and my mum do. And sure, they burned him off the family tree for being a Squib, but it doesn't mean he's not a nice enough guy! I've snuck out to Muggle London to visit him, he lives just a little ways out from Diagon Alley, and –"

"Just stop it, Alphard. I don't want to hear about your Squib uncle. Tom Riddle abandoned my mother. He left a witch to die. He cannot be forgiven."

He had no reason except vain hope to believe that he might find magic on his mother's side of the family. That hope, though, was thin and fleeting. There was no basis for it, and he would learn from past mistakes. He would not place impossible expectations on Marvolo, whoever he was.

"You know, being a half-blood isn't _that_ bad," Abraxas began, thinking it best to turn his friend toward a more positive outlook. "The parents sometimes don't realise what they've done is against nature, but the blame can hardly rest on the kid. It's Muggleborns, though, and the blood traitors who knowingly marry them and Muggles who are the problem. We don't think of you differently, Marvolo. I thought you were a half-blood when we met on the train, and it didn't stop us getting on well since, did it?"

The words rang as truth among the five first years, who all chimed in with similar sentiments, trying to restore their newly rechristened friend to a happier state. All talk stopped when Dorea passed through the common room. She gave them all a small wave that was not returned, her cheerful nature never having really rubbed off on the group of young students. They watched, silently, as she descended the staircase toward her private quarters, something exclusive to Head Boys and Girls.

"Fine, thanks," was all Marvolo could think to say to the others after she disappeared from view. Inwardly, however, vengeance burned in the boy's heart. "If I ever find out that she was a witch," he swore to himself, "I will come for you, Tom. I will kill you."


	15. Chapter 15: A Test of New Identities

With the end of school rapidly approaching, Tom (as he allowed himself to be referred to publicly) and his compatriots found themselves studying harder than ever before for the exams that would soon take place. Holed up in the library, the small group of Slytherins presented quite the sight, tackling their studies with Ravenclawesque fervour.

Tom – or rather, Marvolo – spent the majority of his time going over potions, where he felt the best approach was to absorb each formula into his body of knowledge. The others concentrated elsewhere, often changing pace with a new class's studies. Lilith took to studying Defence as her best shot at being productive.

After making sure he had the Forgetfulness Potion memorised down to the ingredients list and order of mixing, Marvolo set down the book and massaged his temples for a minute, intent on now memorising everything that he had been taught in Transfiguration up until this point.

Abraxas put down his history book for a moment and stared in amazement. There was no slowing down for his half-blood friend; the boy was determined to be the top of every class. With a sigh and a shake of his head as the librarian glared at him for daring to disturb the quiet with such an utterance, he returned to his own work, intent on not failing his own exams, which were now only a week away.

The first day of exams would eventually be agreed upon by a majority of the first year class as the most disastrous event of the term, with the triple whammy of Potions, Transfiguration, and History of Magic. Marvolo did well, having mixed the potion correctly from memory alone, but most of the other students in the year slipped up adding their frog livers, turning a standard Forgetfulness Potion into a Blinding Brew.

Transfiguration, in theory and practice, was the more difficult exam of the morning. Professor Dumbledore, for some reason unbeknownst to his students, thought that testing his students by giving them a bit of the next year's standard fare made sense. Turning tortoises into teapots and teacups was something he usually refrained from doing regularly until teaching second years, but apparently he felt it an appropriate challenge within their abilities.

Marvolo thrived on the challenge and pressure, turning his tortoise into a pleasant little teapot with blue floral patterns and two matching teacups. The other students had a bit of a harder time, some not fully transfiguring their animal. Some had walking teapots and patterned turtle shells, though the majority did a fairly passable job.

History of Magic had a thoroughly mind-dulling exam, wherein much of the class fell asleep immediately and never started. After a three foot essay on wizard-goblin relations, Marvolo almost agreed with the others that the class was a punishment devised by the Founders for some misdeed they assumed every student would commit.

Binns was asleep in his chair throughout the exam, so there were periodic whispers of "Which goblin killed the house-elves?" and "I don't know. I'll check Tom's essay." And check his essay they did. 

Not a moment went by where there wasn't someone standing over his shoulder, reading a few lines above where he was quickly scribbling out his answer in truly impeccable handwriting.

In the end, though they all ended that exam with confidence, it certainly wasn't the greatest end of a day of exams that they could imagine. The next day's exams in Herbology, Charms, and Astronomy were awaited with tense anticipation. "I do not believe there is anything to worry about tomorrow. Herbology and Charms are relatively easy, and Astronomy should be similar. They will be better than what we had today," Marvolo told everyone before they retired for the night, bringing a small measure of hope to Richard and Avery while getting knowing looks from Alphard, Abraxas, and Lilith.

The next morning the students reported to Greenhouse One, where their Herbology exam was to take place. As first years did relatively little in the way of actual work with plants, the written exam was the main portion of the test. After scribbling the proper way to till the soil and water different varieties of magical and mundane flora, the students had to do a short practical exam. They were to un-pot, prepare fresh soil for, and re-pot a sunflower according to convention. This proved a simple enough task and the students ate lunch with great satisfaction and anticipation for the Charms examination.

The Charms exam went spectacularly; Marvolo having put on the most interesting performance of the day with his pineapple. He made it tap dance across the desk while he transfigured a piece of string into a miniature hula hoop, which the pineapple used to do a hula dance. The Astronomy exam that night also went well, and everyone awaited their last exam: Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Defence Against the Dark Arts had the most unique style of testing yet. Each student was given ten slips of parchment on which to write the name of the creature corresponding to the number and a unique thing about that creature. There were ten cages at the front of the classroom, a glowing number above each cage. Professor Merrythought uncovered the cages, and the students started.

The first few cages were easy enough, as the students had encountered the beasts contained inside during previous classes. Imps, pixies, and a grindylow all looked back as the students scribbled on their parchment. The next creatures had been heavily discussed in class, though never brought in for examination. The Kappa, redcap, hinkypunk, and Jarvey peered back, the last letting loose with a slew of foul-mouthed insults.

The final three cages held the most difficult creatures, those that had only been mentioned once or twice during the course of the year. Two of the cages lacked creatures entirely and only had portraits. Marvolo marked down the chimæra and that one had only ever been slain once and then marked down the nundu, and how its breath was virulent. He then turned his attention to the final cage, which held a serpent.

This serpent had two heads and a stump on its left side. He could hear the hushed discussion between the heads.

"_Blasted woman. Every year, it's the same thing,_" one head stated emphatically.

"_Aye, it is. Time for another round of 'gawk at the runespoor,' eh?_" the other head responded with a hint of sarcasm.

"_Indeed, brother. And this lot of human whelps looks as lost as all the rest. Not an intelligent one among them, I'd wager._"

Marvolo bit back his tongue, displeased at the runespoor's lack of respect. Searching his recollection of _Fantastic Beasts_, he quickly jotted down the creature's name and that it produced eggs inside its mouths. Stepping up to Professor Merrythought, he turned in his parchments and left the room, casting a sidelong look at the runespoor once again before leaving.

A few days later, it was the final day of term. Grades had been returned, and Marvolo had the top marks in all subjects. His one hundred and twenty-seven percent Charms exam was the high point of the day, and at the end of term feast, the Slytherins remained in high spirits when Professor Dippet announced the House Cup standings for that year.

"Now," he began in his shaky voice. "I am proud to announce the standings for the House Cup this year. In fourth place, with three hundred and fifty points, is Hufflepuff House."

A small round of applause went out to the Hufflepuffs before Professor Dippet continued.

"In third place, with three hundred and seventy-five points, we have Gryffindor House."

Another round of applause followed.

"In second place, with three hundred and eighty points, is Ravenclaw House."

Another round of applause burst forth, though some Gryffindors booed for what they knew would come next.

"Which leaves us with our winner. Taking the House Cup with three hundred and eighty-seven points, Slytherin House."

The cheers of Slytherin House were nearly drowned out by the booing of Gryffindor, but the draperies changed into green and silver anyway. Professor Slughorn sat beaming at the High Table, proud of his charges. Professor Dumbledore sat with a look of mild bemusement as he looked at Marvolo, who returned a triumphant glare to the older man, daring him to think negatively of him.

As the students boarded the train the next day, the young Slytherins found a compartment to relax in. They discussed the year, their exams, and their plans for summer.

"So how are you getting back to the orphanage, Marvolo? " Lilith asked, not trusting Muggles to be able to transport him safely.

"I can walk. I walked to the platform last September, so it should be just as easy to walk back. The orphanage is only a few miles away," he replied seriously, and no one questioned him.

"So, let's try and having something big in store for the start of next term. I want to start our second year with a bang," Abraxas said.

"That sounds like a plan. This coming year will be bigger and better than the previous one," Marvolo smirked, a multitude of plans coming to his mind. The next year would be a time for great magical experimentation, he resolved, but it would also be a time for him to find his family.


	16. Chapter 16: Summer Muggle

**A/N: Apologies that this has taken so long. It appears that my beta has abandoned me, but my girlfriend has elected to help me out with my stories, which she now gets first crack at. I also owe the bulk of the time away from this for not being particularly able to come up with much to write for this, and more able to work on other projects. I will be, however, resuming work on this now, and so I invite ye to read this and my other fics, because there is a multitude of stuff for you to read in the interim between chapters.**

_Year Two: Marvolo and the Mother's Secret_

_Chapter 16: Summer Muggle_

Being away from Hogwarts was far worse for Marvolo than he had ever imagined it would be. He could not perform magic, he was not at home in the strictly-run orphanage, and worst of all, here he was Tom Riddle and he could not escape it.

No magic, no freedom, and his name all together put the boy in a rather dreary mood. This, coupled with the Muggle's war that the matrons and other orphans feared so much, was enough for him to wish summer over almost the moment it began.

Normally, Marvolo could petition Mrs. Cole for his usual privilege of roaming around London. However, no orphan was allowed to leave the orphanage anymore, owing to the dangers presented by this war. Indeed, it had come as quite a surprise when Mrs. Cole had been at the station waiting for Marvolo. The war did not yet touch British soil, and still the Muggles' every action was driven by fear. He had to wonder whether this war was completely the work of the Muggles.

One night, near the end of summer, Marvolo sat on his bed, much as he had done just a year previously when Professor Dumbledore had told him he was a wizard. He was reading through the letter he had received a few weeks prior, detailing the new books he would need to purchase. There was also a pouch, containing the galleons needed to purchase said books, with some extra to replenish ink, quill, and ingredients supplies.

It was about midnight during a late August night that Marvolo had retired to his room early and took the opportunity to leave the orphanage. He had put on a great show of being in a nasty, hateful, antisocial mood not unlike his usual demeanour during his time at the orphanage, and the others knew that it was not smart to bother Tom Riddle while he was in one of his moods. This had bought him the time and space needed to prepare his things for the journey he would make this night.

After building a mildly convincing facsimile of himself and cursing the Hogwarts policy of no magic during the summer holidays as he did so, he secured his money pouch and pocketed his wand and the booklist. He had looked up the law in his history book – self defence was a legitimate reason to use underage magic over the holidays and he intended to be prepared should he need it. Carefully opening the window so that he could leave, he descended to the ground, leaving the window open by just a crack. Marvolo was on his way to central London.

He spent most of the trip at a brisk walk, though he did choose to run a portion of the distance, cutting his travel time. The longer he was away from the orphanage, Marvolo reasoned, the greater his risk of exposure. He slowed to a casual walk near Vauxhall Court road, home to several stores he had admired in his younger years. Upon his arrival at the Leaky Cauldron, however, all fond thoughts in regard to Muggle London were forgotten. He stepped inside and wordlessly made his way past the bartender on his way to the hidden entrance to Diagon Alley.

Taking his wand out with a flourish, he tapped the correct bricks and watched the archway reveal itself. As unimpressed as he had been the first time he had seen this, when he had simply followed an elderly warlock through the portal, Marvolo entered Diagon Alley for the second time. He made his way toward the bookstore, forcing his eyes from the tempting view of Gringotts. Someday, in a future that seemed too distant to be fair, Marvolo knew he would have something precious to store in the bank. Then, and only then he thought, would he feel as if he truly and fully belonged in the wizarding world.

Many shops were closing for the night, but Flourish and Blotts was open regardless of the hour. Entering the shop, Marvolo sauntered over to the shelves and began to examine the books. Some of them looked to be interesting, such as _Notable Magical Discoveries of the Nineteenth Century_ and _Teachings of a Snake: the Biography of Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black_.

Others were less accommodating of good taste. A series of cookbooks and do-it-yourself pest control manuals bored Marvolo enough to recall his purpose – the procurement of his next year's textbooks. Not allowing himself to be distracted by such petty trivialities as these books again, he found the spellbooks section of the store. He immediately took down the first copy of _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 2)_ from its place on the shelf. He thumbed through it for a few moments before remembering that he already had a copy. Then, just a moment later, he found the section devoted to Defence Against the Dark Arts and picked up the lone remaining copy of _Jinxes for the Jinxed_.

Marvolo paid for his book, leaving him with roughly seven Galleons and a dozen Sickles left in his needy students' funds. He decided against buying any new potions supplies this summer, as it would cost too much and his supply kit was not particularly lacking yet. Instead of leaving Diagon Alley immediately, he decided it would be best to take a walk around and think a little while he was still around magic.

He walked by the old wandshop, looking into the dark and lifeless windows. It was closed for the night, but Marvolo walked up to the door anyway. He held his unlit wand up like a beacon, then lowered it to consider without having any idea why he felt compelled to do any of this. He examined the wand for a minute or two, tracing along the grain of the wood with his fingers and admiring the craftsmanship. When he looked up, intending to leave, he stood stock still, unable to move. The wandmaker stood in the doorway, looking down at the boy with a curious expression on his face.

"Ah, young Marvolo. I was not expecting to see you back at my shop so soon after purchasing your wand. Yew and phoenix feather, thirteen-and-a-half inches long, is it not?" The old man inquired, fixing his gaze upon the young lad.

"Yes, sir, it is. Why did you call me by that name, sir? With all due respect, Mr. Ollivander, my name is Tom," Marvolo replied, holding up his wand in a nonthreatening manner. He held it more as if he was offering it for the wandmaker's examination, unsure of what to do in the face of this man who knew to call him Marvolo. It had taken all his inner strength to keep from spitting when he said his previous name to the old man.

"It is your middle name, is it not? Some people much prefer their middle name to their given name, and you seem to me like you would be one of those people. Ah, yes, I do know this wand well," the old man said, fondly caressing the shaft of wood and examining it closely. "It is an immensely powerful wand; a unique combination of mine that I always knew would choose one who would do great things. It appears that you clean it regularly and take excellent care of it."

"Yes, I do, sir. There is not much else to do with it during the summer months, after all."

"Indeed, it is difficult to live the summer of a Muggle with such magic literally at your fingertips. Take your wand back, now. I bid you a good night, Marvolo," Ollivander replied as he retreated into the shop, returning the wand to its master.

"And good night to you, too, old man," Marvolo muttered as he turned to walk away from the shop and toward the brick archway that would lead him back to Muggle London.


End file.
